ate)' 


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JVo.  109 


LIBRARY  OF  SELECJT  NOVELS. 


JAIE    EYRE.H 


3.11  3,utobiograpl)2» 


^,1^ 


EDITED   BY 


R  E  R    BELL, 


'—t***^4«t*****—  ■ 


NEW   YORK: 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  83  CLIFF  STREET. 


184  8. 


Price  Twenty-five  Cents. 


L<-    ' 


aa     va     @«i(yca«ia     Wit 

IN  COURSB  OP  PUBLICATION,  IN  THE  CHEAP,  POPCLAE  FORM 

BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


Vo. 
1. 

i. 

3. 

4 
5. 

e. 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 
16. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
20. 
21. 
22. 
23. 
24. 
35. 
26. 
27. 
28. 
29. 
30. 
31. 
32. 
33. 
34. 
35. 
36. 
37. 
38. 
39. 
40. 
41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 
45. 
46. 
47. 
48. 
49. 
SO. 
51. 
62. 
S3. 


PELHAM.    ByBULWER 
THE  DISOWNED.    By  BULWER 
DEVEREtJX.     ByBULWER    . 
PAUL  CLIFFORD.    By  BULWER 
EUGENE  ARAM.     By  BULWER  . 


25 
25 
25 
25 


LAST  DAYS  OF  POMPEII.  ByBULWER  25 
THE  CZARINA.    By  Mrs.  HOFLAND  .        .  25 

RIENZI.     By  BULWER 25 

SELF-DEVOTION.  By  Miss  CAMPBELL  .  25 
THE  NABOB  AT  HOME  ....  25 
ERNEST  MALTRAVERS.  By  BULWER  25 
ALICE.     ByBULWER       ....  25 

LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.     By  BULWER 
FOREST  DAYS.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES  . 
ADAM  BROWN.     By  HORACE  S.MITH 


25 
12J 
12i 

PILGRIMS  OF  THE  RHINE.  BULWER  12i 
THE  HOME.  By  Miss  BREMER  .  .  .  12J 
THE  LOST  SHIP.  By  Capt.  NEALE  .  .  25* 
THE  FALSE  HEIR.  By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES  .  12* 
THE  NEIGHBORS.  By  Miss  BREMER  .  12^ 
NINA.  By  Miss  BREMER  .  .  .  .124 
PRESIDENT'S  DAUGHTERS.  BREMER  I24 
THE  BANKER'S  WIFE.  By  Mrs.  GORE  .  12J 
THE  BIRTHRIGHT.  By  Mrs.  GORE  .  12J 
NEW  SKETCHES  :  a  Diary.  By  BREMER  12i 
ARABELLA  STUART.  By  G.  P.  R.JAMES  12J 
THE  GRUMBLER.  By  Miss  PICKERING  12^ 
THE  UNLOVED  ONE.  Mrs.  UOFLAND  .  12i 
JACK  OF  THE  MILL.  By  W.  IIOWITT  .  12i 
THE  HERETIC.  By  LAJETCHNIKOFF  .  12J 
THE  JEW.  By  SPINDLER  .  .  .  .12^ 
ARTHUR.  By  EUGENE  SUE  .  .  .25 
CHATSWORTH.  By  WARD  .  .  .12* 
THE  PRAIRIE  BIRD.    By  MURRAY         .  25" 

AMY  HERBERT 12i 

ROSE  D'ALBRET.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES      .12* 
TRIUMPHS  OF  TIME.    By  Mrs.  MARSH    25 

THE  H FAMILY.     By  Miss  BREMER  .  12J 

THE  GRAND-FATHER.  Miss  PICKERING  12J 
ARRAH  NEIL.    By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES     . 

THE  JILT 

TALES  FROM  THE  GERMAN 
ARTHUR  ARUNDEL.  HORACE  SMITH 
AGINCOURT.  By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES 
THE  REGENT'S  DAUGHTER.  DUMAS  25 
THE  MAlD  OF  HONOR  .  ....  25 
SAFIA.  By  DE  BEAUVOIR  .... 
LOOK  TO  THE  END.  By  Mrs.  ELLIS 
THE  IMPROVISATORE.  By  ANDERSEN 
THE  GAMBLER'S  WIFE.  By  Mrs.  GREY  25 
VERONICA.  By  ZSCHOKKE  .  .  .25 
ZOE.  By  Miss  JEWSBURY  .  .  .  .25 
WYOMING -25 


12* 

12i 

124 

25 

25 


124 

124 
124 


By  EUGENE  SUE 


Cm* 
.  25 
.  35 
.  25 
.  25 


54.  DE  ROHAN, 

55.  SELF  

56.  THE  SMUGGLER.    By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

57.  BREACH  OF  PROMISE 

58.  PARSONAGE  OF  MORA.     Misi  BREMER   I24 
89.  A  CHANCE  MEDLEY.    By  GRATTAN      .  25 

60.  THE  WHITE  SLAVE    ....  25 

61.  THE  BOSOM  FRIEND.    By  Mr*.  GREY   ,  25 

62.  AMAURY.     By  DUMAS 25 

63.  AUTHOR'S  DAUGHTER.    Mr».  HOWITT   I24 

64.  ONLY  A  FIDDLER.     By  ANDERSEN         .  25 

65.  THE  WHITEBOY.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  HALL    .  25 

66.  THE  FOSTER-BROTHER.    By  HUNT     .  25 

67.  LOVE  AND  MESMERISM.    By  H.SMITH  25 

68.  ASCANIO.     By  DUMAS     .        .  .        .  2."i 

69.  THE  LADY  OF  MILAN       ....  25 

70.  THE  CITIZEN  OF  PRAGUE      .        .        .85 

71.  THE   ROYAL  FAVORITE.     By  Mrs.  GORE  25 

72.  THE  QUEEN  OF  DENMARK    .  .25 

73.  THE  ELVES,  ETC.     By  CARLYLE,  etc.     .  25 

74.  75.  THE  STEP-MOTHER.    JAMES,  each  .  25 

76.  JESSIE'S  FLIRTATIONS     .        .        .        .25 

77.  CHEVALIER  D'HARMENTAL.    DUMAS  25 

78.  PEERS  AND  PARVENUS.    By  Mrs.  GORE  25 

79.  COMMANDER  OF  MALTA.     By  SUE      .  25 

80.  THE  FEMALE  MINISTER        .        .        .  12* 

81.  EMILIA  WYNDHAM.     By  Mrs.  MARSH    .  25 

82.  THE  B'^SH  RANGER.     By  ROWCROFT  .  25 


83.  CLOV 

84.  CON" 

P 

85.  ;i,' 

86. 

87.  . 

88.  L. 

89.  H 

90.  Lt  = 

91.  BE 

92.  FOl 

93.  DAN  \ 

94.  FORTl 

95.  CINQ-Ri. 

96.  WOMAN' 


^'^.     By  DOUGLAS  JERROLD    124 
'  OF  A  PRETTY  WOMAN. 
B 25 

Es 124 

\LIVAN.  By  MAXWELL  25 
.  25 
.  SS 
.  25 


\.    By  Mrs.  MARSH 
\rs.  MABERLY  . 
y  G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

\E. 


1^ 


%_ 


BULWER  LYTTON    25 

P.  R.  JAMES      .        .  25 

KNOWLES.    Part  I.  25 

J.    By  Mrs.  HOFLAND  25 

,  J.  S.  KNOWLES.    Part  H.  25 

^Jy  DE  VIGNY         .  .25 

RIALS.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  HALL    25 

97.  CASTLE  O'F  EHRENSTEIN.    By  JAMES  25 

98.  MARRIAGE.     By  Miss  S.  FERRIER  .  25 

99.  100.  INHERITANCE.     By  Miss  S.  FERRIER  50 

101.  RUSSELL.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES     .        .        .25 

102.  A  SIMPLE  STORY.     By  Mrs.  INCHD.VLD    85 

103.  NORMAN'S  BRIDGE.     By  Mrs.  MARSH  .  25 

104.  ALAMANCE 25 

105.  MARGARET  GRAHAM.    By  JAMES       .  I94 

106.  THE  WAYSIDE  CROSS.     By  MILMAN   .  134 

107.  THE  CONVICT.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES         .  25 


POCKET  SERIES  OF   NOVELS. 


1.  THE  YEMASSEE.    By  W.  G.  SIMMS  .       .25 

2.  YOUNG  KATE 25 

3.  TALES    OF    GLAUBER    SPA.     By  J.  K. 

PAULDING  a7.d  others 25 

4.  ATTILA.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES  .        .        .25 
6.  CORSE   DE  LEON.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES     .25 

6.  THE   ANCIENT  REGIME.     By  JAMES      .25 

7.  THE  MAN-AT-ARMS.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES  25 

8.  CHARLES  TYRRELL.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES  25 

9.  DUTCHMAN'S   FIRESIDE.     PAULUINC     25 
}0.  NIGHT  AND   MORNING.     By  BULWER  .  25 


11.  WESTWARD   HO!     By  J.  K.  PAULDING     . 

12.  EVELINA.     By  Miss  BURNEY 

13.  THE   ROBBER.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES     . 

14.  GUY   RIVERS.     By  W.  G.  SIMMS  .        .        . 

15.  THE   YOUNG   DUKE.     By  D'lSRAELI 

16.  RICHELIEU.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES 

17.  CRICHTON.     By  W.  H.  AINSWORTH 

18.  LEILA.     By  Sir  E.  II.  LYTTON        . 

19.  THE    HUGUENOT.     By  G.  P.  R.  JAMES    . 

20.  THE  KINGS   HIGHWAY.     By  JAMES  .     . 

21.  THE  STRING  OF   PEARLS.     By  JAMES 


SS 

85 

35 

35 

85 

35 

25 

184 

25 

85 

85 


JANE     EYRE. 


"^.n  ^tttobiograpljB. 


..A 


SDITED    BT 


^'Qi  R  E  R     BELL, 


/ 


V 


»«««^»//l»l<#^^»WI 


NOTE:-  This  book  was  actually 

printed  in  1847. 

See  dated  ads  on  pages  175-176 


HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

82   CLIFF   STREET,    NEW   YORK. 

1.8  48. 


JANE    EYRE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

There  was  no  possibility  of  taking  a  walk 
that  day.  We  had  been  wandering,  indeed,  in 
the  leafless  shrubbery  an  hour  in  the  morning  ; 
but  since  dinner  (Mrs.  Reed,  when  there  was 
no  company,  dined  early)  the  cold  winter  wind 
had  brought  with  it  clouds  so  somber,  and  a 
rain  so  penetrating,  that  further  out-door  exer- 
cise was  now  out  of  the  question. 

I  was  glad  of  it :  I  never  liked  long  walks, 
especially  on  chilly  afternoons  :  dreadful  to  me 
was  the  coming  home  in  the  raw  twilight,  with 
nipped  fingers  and  toes,  and  a  heart  saddened 
by  the  chidings  of  Bessie,  the  nurse,  and  hum- 
bled by  the  consciousness  of  my  physical  infe- 
riority to  Eliza,  John,  and  Georgiana  Reed. 

The  said  Eliza,  John,  and  Georgiana  were 
now  clustered  round  their  mamma  in  the  draw- 
ing-room ;  she  lay  reclined  on  a  sofa  by  the 
fireside,  and,  with  her  darlings  about  her  (for 
the  time  neither  quarreling  nor  crying),  looked 
perfectly  happy.  Me,  she  had  dispensed  from 
joining  the  group,  saying,  "She  regretted  to 
be  under  the  necessity  of  keeping  me  at  a  dis- 
tance ;  but  that  until  she  heard  from  Bessie, 
and  could  discover  by  her  own  observation  that 
I  was  endeavoring  in  good  earnest  to  acquire  a 
more  sociable  and  childlike  disposition,  a  more 
attractive  and  sprightly  manner  —  something 
lighter,  franker,  more  natural,  as  it  were — she 
really  must  exclude  me  from  privileges  intended 
only  for  contented,  happy  little  children." 

"What  does  Bessie  say  I  have  donel"  I 
asked. 

"  Jane,  I  don't  like  cavilers  or  questioners : 
besides,  there  is  something  truly  forbidding  in  a 
child  taking  up  her  elders  in  that  manner.  Be 
seated  somewhere  ;  and,  until  you  can  speak 
pleasantly,  remain  silent." 

A  small  breakfast-room  adjoined  the  drawing- 
room  :  I  slipped  in  there.  It  contained  a  book- 
case :  I  soon  possessed  myself  of  a  volume, 
taking  care  that  it  should  be  one  stored  with 
pictures.  I  mounted  into  the  window-seat : 
gathering  up  my  feet,  I  sat  cross-legged,  like  a 
Turk  ;  and,  having  drawn  the  red  moreen  cur- 
tain nearly  close,  I  was  shrined  in  double  re- 
tirement. 

Folds  of  scarlet  drapery  shut  in  my  view  to 
the  right  hand  ;  to  the  left  were  the  clear  panes 
of  glass  protecting,  but  not  separating,  me  from 
the  drear  November  day.  At  intervals,  while 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  my  book,  I  studied 
the  aspect  of  that  winter  afternoon.  Afar  it 
offered  a  pale  blank  of  mist  and  cloud  ;  near,  a 
scene  of  wet  lawn  and  storm-beat  shrub,  with 
ceaseless  rain  sweeping  away  wildly  before  a 
long  and  lamentable  blast. 


I  returned  to  my  book — Bewick's  History  of 
British  Birds  ;  the  letter-press  thereof  I  cared 
little  for,  generally  speaking ;  and  yet  there 
were  certain  introductory  pages  that,  child  as  I 
was,  I  could  not  pass  quite  as  a  blank.  They 
were' those  which  treat  of  the  haunts  of  sea- 
fowl  ;  of  "  the  solitary  rocks  and  promontories" 
by  them  only  inhabited  ;  of  the  coast  of  Nor- 
way, studded  with  isles  from  its  southern  ex- 
tremity, the  Lindeness,  or  Naze,  to  the  North 
Cape — 

•'  Where  the  Northern  Ocean,  in  vast  whirls 
Boils  round  the  naked,  melancholy  isles 
Of  farthest  Thule  ;  and  the  Atlantic  surge 
Pours  in  among  the  stormy  Hebrides." 

Nor  could  I  pass  unnoticed  the  suggestion  of 
the  bleak  shores  of  Lapland,  Siberia,  Spitzber- 
gen,  Nova  Zembla,  Iceland,  Greenland,  with 
"  the  vast  sweep  of  the  Arctic  Zone,  and  thoss 
forlorn  regions  of  dreary  space — that  reservoir 
of  frost  and  snow,  where  firm  fields  of  ice,  the 
accumulation  of  centuries  of  winters,  glazed  ia 
Alpine  heights  above  heights,  surround  the  pole, 
and  concenter  the  multiplied  rigors  of  extreme 
cold."  Of  these  death-white  realms  I  formed 
an  idea  of  my  own — shadowy,  like  all  the  half- 
comprehended  notions  that  float  dim  through 
children's  brains,  but  strangely  impressive. 
The  words  in  these  introductory  pages  con- 
nected themselves  with  the  succeeding  vig- 
nets.  and  gave  significance  to  the  rock  stand- 
ing up  alone  in  a  sea  of  billow  and  spray ;  to 
the  broken  boat  stranded  on  a  desolate  coast  ; 
to  the  cold  and  ghastly  moon  glancing  through 
bars  of  cloud  at  a  wreck  just  sinking. 

I  can  not  tell  what  sentiment  haunted  the 
quiet,  solitary  chiirch-yard  with  its  inscribed 
headstone  ;  its  gate,  its  two  trees,  its  low  hori- 
zon, girdled  by  a  broken  wall,  and  its  newly- 
risen  crescent,  attesting  the  hour  of  eventide. 

The  two  ships  becalmed  on  a  torpid  sea,  E 
believed  to  be  marine  phantoms. 

The  fiend  pinning  down  the  thief's  pack  be- 
hind him,  I  passed  over  quickly  :  it  was  an  object 
of  terror. 

So  was  the  black,  horned  thing  seated  aloof 
on  a  rock,  surveying,  a  distant  crowd  surround- 
ing a  gallows. 

Each  picture  told  a  story  ;  mysterious  oftea 
to  my  undeveloped  understanding  and  imperfect 
feelings,  yet  ever  profoundly  interesting :  as 
interesting  as  the  tales  Bessie  sometimes  nar- 
rated on  winter  evenings,  when  she  chanced  to 
be  in  good  humor ;  and  when,  having  brought 
her  ironing-table  to  the  nursery  hearth,  she 
allowed  us  to  sit  about  it,  and  while  she  got  up 
Mrs.  Reed's  lace  frills,  and  crimped  her  night- 
cap borders,  fed  our  eager  attention  with  pass- 
ages of  love  and  adventure  taken  from  old  fairy 


JANE  EYRE. 


tales  and  older  ballads  ,  or  (as  at  a  later  period 
I  discovered)  from  the  pages  of  Pamela,  and 
Henry,  Earl  of  Moreland. 

With  Bewick  on  my  knee,  I  was  then  happy  : 
happy  at  least  in  my  way.  I  feared  nothing  but 
interruption,  and  that  came  too  soon.  The 
breakfast- room  door  opened. 

"  Boh !  Madam  Mope  I"  cried  the  voice  of 
John  Reed  ;  then  he  paused  :  he  found  the  room 
apparently  empty. 

'•  Where  the  dickens  is  she  1"  he  continued. 
"  Lizzy,  Georgy  !"'  (calling  to  his  sisters)  "  Joan 
is  not  here  :  tell  mamma  she  is  run  out  into  the 
Tain — bad  animal !" 

"  It  is  well  I  drew  the  curtain,"  thought  1 ; 
and  I  wished  fervently  he  might  not  discover 
my  hiding-place  :  nor  would  John  Reed  have 
found  it  out  himself;  he  was  not  quick  either 
of  vision  or  conception  :  but  Eliza  just  put  her 
head  in  at  the  door  and  said  at  once — 

"She  is  in  the  window-seat,  to  be  sure, 
Jack." 

And  I  came  out  immediately  ;  for  I  trembled 
at  the  idea  of  being  dragged  forth  by  the  said 
Jack. 

"What  do  you  wantV  I  asked,  with  awk- 
ward difl5dence. 

"  Say,  'what  do  you  want.  Master  ReedT  " 
was  the  answer.  "  I  want  you  to  come  here  ;" 
and,  seating  himself  in  an  arm-chair,  he  inti- 
mated by  a  gesture  that  I  was  to  approach  and 
stand  before  him. 

John  Reed  was  a  school-boy  of  fourteen  years 
old — four  years  older  than  I,  for  I  was  but  ten — 
large  and  stout  for  his  age,  with  a  dingy  and 
unwholesome  skin;  thick  lineaments  in  a, spa- 
cious visage,  heavy  limbs  and  large  extremities. 
He  gorged  himself  habitually  at  table,  which 
made  him  bilious,  and  gave  him  a  dim  and 
bleared  eye  and  flabby  cheeks.  He  ought  now 
to  have  been  at  school ;  but  his  mamma  had 
taken  him  home  for  a  month  or  two,  "  on  ac- 
count of  his  delicate  health."  Mr.  Miles,  the 
master,  affirmed  that  he  would  do  very  well  if 
he  had  fewer  cakes  and  sweetmeats  sent  him 
from  home  ;  but  the  mother's  heart  turned  from 
an  opinion  so  harsh,  and  inclined  rather  to  the 
msre  refined  idea  that  John's  sallowness  was 
owing  to  overapplication,  and,  perhaps,  to  pining 
after  home. 

.Tohn  had  not  much  affection  for  his  mother 
ai  !  sisters,  and  an  antipathy  to  me.  He  bullied 
aiid  punished  me — not  two  or  three  times  in  the 
week,  nor  once  or  twice  in  the  day,  but  con- 
tinually ;  every  nerve  I  had  feared  him,  and 
every  morsel  of  flesh  on  rny  bones  shrunk  when 
he  came  near.  There  were  moments  when  I 
"was  bewildered  by  the  terror  he  inspired,  be- 
cause I  had  no  appeal  whatever  against  either 
his  menaces  or  his  inflictions  :  the  servants  did 
not  like  to  offend  their  young  master  by  taking 
my  part  against  him,  and  Mrs  Reed  was  blind 
and  deaf  on  the  subject  :  she  never  saw  him 
strike  or  heard  him  abuse  me,  though  he  did 
both  now  and  then  in  her  very  presence — more 
frequently,  however,  behind  her  back. 

Habitually  obedient  to  John,  T  came  up  to 
his  chair  ;  he  spent  some  three  minutes  in 
thrusting  out  his  tongue  at  me  as  far  as  he 
could  without  damaging  the  roots  :  I  knew  he 
would  soon  strike,  and,  while  dreading  the  blow, 
I  mused  on  the  disgusting  and  ugly  appearance 


of  him  who  would  presently  deal  it.  I  wonder 
if  he  read  that  notion  in  my  face  ;  for,  all  at 
once,  without  speaking,  he  struck  suddenly  and 
strongly.  I  toitered,  and,  on  regaining  my  equi- 
librium, retired  back  a  step  or  two  from  his 
chair. 

"That  is  for  your  impudence  in  answering 
mamma  a  while  since,"  said  he,  "and  for  your 
sneaking  way  of  getting  behind  curtains,  and 
for  the  look  you  had  in  your  eyes  two  minutes 
since,  you  rat !" 

Accustomed  to  John  Reed's  abuse,  I  never 
had  an  idea  of  replying  to  it ;  my  care  was  how 
to  endure  the  blow  which  would  certainly  follow 
the  insult. 

"  What  were  you  doing  behind  the  curtain  V' 
he  asked. 

"  I  was  reading." 

"Show  the  book." 

I  returned  to  the  window  and  fetched  it 
thence. 

"  You  have  no  business  to  take  our  books : 
you  are  a  dependent,  mamma  says ;  you  have 
no  money  ;  your  father  left  you  none  ;  you 
ought  to  beg,  and  not  to  live  here  with  gentle- 
men's children  like  us,  and  eat  the  same  meals 
we  do,  and  wear  clothes  at  our  mamma's  ex- 
pense. Now,  I'll  teach  you  to  rummage  my 
book-shelves  :  for  they  are  mine  ;  all  the  house 
belongs  to  me,  or  will  do  in  a  few  yeara.  Go 
and  stand  by  the  door,  out  of  the  way  of  the 
mirror  and  the  windows." 

I  did  so,  not  at  first  aware  what  was  his  in- 
tention ;  but  when  I  saw  him  lift  and  poise  the 
book,  and  stand  in  act  to  hurl  it,  I  instinctively 
started  aside  with  a  cry  of  alarm — not  soon 
enough,  however  :  the  volume  was  flung,  it  hit 
mp,  and  I  fell,  striking  my  head  against  the 
door  and  cutting  it.  The  cut  bled,  the  pain  was 
sharp  :  my  terror  had  passed  its  climax  ;  other 
feelings  succeeded. 

"  Wicked  and  cruel  hoy  !"  I  said.  "  You  are 
like  a  murderer — you  are  like  a  slave-driver — 
you  are  like  the  Roman  emperors  !" 

I  had  read  Goldsmith's  History  of  Rome,  and 
had  formed  my  opinion  of  Nero,  Caligula,  &c. 
Also  I  had  drawn  parallels  in  silence,  which  I 
never  thought  thus  to  have  declared  aloud. 

"  What !  what !"  he  cried,  "did  she  say  that 
to  me  1  Did  you  hear  her,  Eliza  and  Georgiana  1 
Won't  I  tell  mammal     But  first— " 

He  ran  headlong  at  me  ;  I  felt  him  grasp  my 
hair  and  my  shoulder ;  he  had  closed  with  a 
desperate  thing.  I  really  saw  in  him  a  tyrant — 
a  murderer.  I  felt  a  drop  or  two  of  blood  from 
my  head  trickle  down  my  neck,  and  was  sensi- 
ble of  some  pungent  suffering  :  these  sensa- 
tions, for  the  time,  predominated  over  fear,  and 
I  received  him  in  frantic  sort.  I  don't  very 
well  know  what  I  did  with  my  hands,  but  he 
called  me  "  Rat  !  rat !"  and  bellowed  out  aloud 
Aid  was  near  him  ;  Eliza  and  Georgiana  had 
run  for  Mrs.  Reed,  who  was  gone  up  stairs  ; 
she  now  came  upon  the  scene,  followed  by 
Bessie  and  her  maid  Abbot.  We  were  parted  ; 
I  heard  the  words  : 

"  Dear  !  dear  !  What  a  fury  to  fly  at  Mas- 
ter John  !" 

"  Did  ever  any  body  see  such  a  picture  of 
passion  !" 

Then  Mrs  Reed  subjoined  : 

"  Take  her  away  to  the  red-room,  and  lock 


JANE  EYRE. 


her  in  there."     Four  hands  were  immediately 
laid  upon  me,  and  I  was  borne  up  stairs. 


CHAPTER  II 

I  RESISTED  all  the  way  :  a  new  thing  for  me, 
and  a  circumstance  which  greatly  strengthened 
the  bad  opinion  Bessie  and  Miss  Abbot  were 
disposed  to  entertain  of  nie.  The  fact  is,  I 
was  a  trifle  beside  myself;  or,  ratlier,  out  of 
myself,  as  the  French  would  say ;  I  was  con- 
scious that  a  moment's  mutiny  had  already 
rendered  me  liable  to  strange  penalties,  and, 
like  any  other  rebel  slave,  1  felt  resolved,  in 
my  desperation,  to  go  all  lengths. 

"  Hold  her  arms,  Miss  Abbot ;  she's  like  a 
mad  cat." 

"  For  shame  !  for  shame  !"  cried  the  lady's- 
maid.  "What  shocking  conduct,  Miss  Eyre, 
to  strike  a  young  gentleman,  your  benefac- 
tress's son  !  your  young  master  !" 

"  Master  !  How  is  he  my  master  ?  Am  I 
a  servant ;" 

"No;  you  are  less  than  a  servan',  for  you 
lo  nothing  for  your  keep.  There,  sit  down  and 
think  over  your  wickedness." 

They  had  got  me  by  this  time  into  tbt  apart- 
ment indicated  by  Mrs.  Reed,  and  had  thrust 
me  upon  a  stool ;  my  impulse  was  to  rise  from 
U  hke  a  spring ;  their  two  pairs  of  hands  ar- 
rested me  instantly. 

"  If  you  don't  sit  still,  you  must  be  tied 
down,"  said  Bessie.  "Miss  Abbot,  lend  me 
your  garters;  she  would  break  mine  directly." 

Miss  Abbot  turned  to  divest  a  stout  leg  of 
the  necessary  ligature.  This  preparation  for 
bonds,  and  the  additional  ignominy  it  inferred, 
took  a  little  of  the  excitement  out  of  me. 

"Don't  take  them  off,"  I  cried  ;  "  I  will  not 
stir." 

In  guaranty  whereof  I  attached  myself  to 
my  seat  by  my  hands. 

"  Mind  you  don't,"  said  Bessie ;  and  when 
she  had  ascertained  that  I  was  really  subsid- 
ing, she  loosened  her  hold  of  me  ;  y^ien  she  and 
Miss  Abbot  stood  with  folded  arms,  looking 
darkly  and  doubtfully  on  my  face,  as  incredu- 
lous of  my  sanity. 

"  She  never  did  so  before,"  at  last  said  Bes- 
sie, turning  to  the  Abigail. 

"  But  it  was  always  in  her,"  was  the  reply. 
"  I've  told  missis  often  my  opinion  about  the 
child,  and  missis  agreed  with  me.  She's  an 
underhand  Utile  thing  ;  I  never  saw  a  girl  of 
her  age  with  so  much  cover." 

Bessie  answered  not ;  but  ere  long,  address- 
ing me,  she  said, 

"  You- ought  to  be  aware,  miss,  that  you  are 
under  obligations  to  Mrs.  Reed  :  she  keeps  you  ; 
if  she  were  to  turn  you  off,  you  would  have  to 
go  to  the  poor-house." 

I  had  nothing  to  say  to  these  words ;  they 
were  not  new  to  me  ;  my  very  first  recollec- 
tions of  existence  included  hints  of  the  same 
kind.  This  reproach  of  my  dependence  had  be- 
come a  vague  sing-song  in  my  ear  ;  very  pain- 
ful and  crushing,  but  only  half  intelligible. 
Miss  Abbot  joined  in  : 

'"  And  you  ought  not  to  think  yourself  on  an 
equality  with  the  Misses  Reed  and  Master 
Reed,  because  missis  kindly  allows  you  to  be 


brought  up  with  them.  They  will  have  a  great 
deal  of  money,  and  you  will  have  none  ;  it  is 
your  place  to  be  humble,  and  to  try  to  make 
yourself  agreeable  to  them." 

"  What  we  tell  you  is  for  your  good,"  add- 
ed Bessie,  in  no  harsh  voice  ;  "  you  should  try,, 
to  be  useful  and  pleasant,  then   perhaps  you' 
would  have  a  home  here  ;  but  if  you  become 
passionate  and  rude,  missis  will  send  you  away, 
I  am  sure." 

'■  Besides,"  said  Miss  Abbot,  "  God  will  pun- 
ish her  ;  he  might  strike  her  dead  in  the  midst 
of  her  tantrums,  and  then  where  would  she  go"! 
Come,  Bessie,  we  will  leave  her ;  I  wouldn't 
have  her  heart  for  anj  thing.  Say  your  pray- 
ers. Miss  Eyre,  when  you  are  by  yourself;  for 
if  you  don't  repent,  something  bad  might  be 
permitted  to  come  down  the  chimney  and  fetch 
you  away." 

They  went,  shutting  the  door,  and  locking  it 
behind  them. 

The  bed-room  was  a  spare  chamber,  very  sel- 
dom slept  in  ;  I  might  say  never,  indeed,  unless 
when  a  chance  influx  of  visitors  at  Gateshead 
Hall  rendered  it  necessary  to  turn  to  account 
all  the  accommodation  it  contained  ;  yet  it  was 
one  of  the  largest  and  stateliest  chambers  in 
the  mansion.  A  bed  supported  on  massive 
pillars  of  mahogany,  hung  with  curtains  of  deep 
red  damask,  stood  out  like  a  tabernacle  in  the 
center;  the  two  large  windows,  with  their 
blinds  always  drawn  down,  were  half  shrouded 
in  festoons  and  falls  of  similar  drapery  ;  the 
carpet  was  red  ;  the  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed 
was  covered  with  a  crimson  cloth  ;  the  walls 
a  soft  fawn-color,  with  a  blush  of  pink  in  it ; 
the  wardrope,  the  toilet-table,  the  chairs  were 
of  darkly-polished  old  mahogany.  Out  of  these 
deep  surrounding  shades  rose  high,  and  glared 
white,  the  piled-up  matresses  and  pillows  of 
the  bed,  spread  with  a  snowy  Marseilles  coun- 
terpane. Scarcely  less  prominent  was  an  am- 
ple, cushioned  easy-chair  near  the  head  of  the 
bed,  also  white,  with  a  footstool  before  it ;  and 
looking,  as  I  thought,  like  a  pale  throne. 

This  room  was  chill,  because  it  seldom  had 
a  fire ;  it  was  silent,  because  remote  from  the 
nursery  and  kitchens  ;  solemn,  because  it  was 
known  to  be  so  seldom  entered.  The  house- 
maid alone  came  here  on  Saturdays,  to  wipe 
from  the  mirrors  and  the  furniture  a  week's 
quiet  dust ;  and  Mrs.  Reed  herself,  at  far  in- 
tervals, visited  it  to  review  the  contents  of  a 
certain  secret  drawer  in  the  wardrobe,  where 
were  stored  divers  parchments,  her  jewel- 
casket,  and  a  miniature  of  her  deceased  hus- 
band ;  and  in  those  last  words  lies  the  secret 
of  the  red-room — the  spell  which  kept  it  so 
lonely  in  spite  of  its  grandeur. 

Mr.  Reed  had  been  dead  nine  years  ;  it  was 
in  this  chamber  he  breathed  his  last ;  here  he 
lay  in  state  ;  hence  his  coffin  was  borne  by  un- 
dertaker's men;  and,  since  that  day,  a  sense 
of  dreary  consecration  had  guarded  it  from  fre- 
quent intrusion. 

My  seat,  to  which  Bessie  and  the  bitter  Miss 
Abbot  had  left  me  riveted,  was  a  low  ottoman, 
near  the  marble  chimney-piece  ;  the  bed  rose 
before  me ;  to  my  right  hand  there  was  the 
high,  dark  wardrobe,  with  subdued,  broken  re- 
flections varying  the  gloss  of  its  panels ;  to 
my  left  were  the  muffled  windows ;   a  great 


JANE  EYRE. 


looking-glass  between  them  repeated  the  va- 
cant majesty  of  the  bed  and  room.  I  was  not 
quite  sure  whether  they  had  locked  the  door ; 
and,  when  I  dared  move,  I  got  up,  and  went  to 
see.  Alas !  yes ;  no  jail  was  ever  more  se- 
cure. Returning,  I  had  to  cross  before  the 
looking-glass ;  my  fascinated  glance  involun- 
tarily explored  the  depth  it  revealed.  All 
looked  colder  and  darker  in  that  visionary  hol- 
low than  in  reality  ;  and  the  strange  little  figure 
there  gazing  at  me,  with  a  white  face  and  arms 
specking  the  gloom,  and  glittering  eyes  of  fear 
moving  where  all  else  was  still,  had  the  effect 
of  a  real  spirit.  I  thought  it  like  one  of  the 
tiny  phantoms,  half  fairy,  half  imp,  Bessie's 
evening  stories  represented  as  coming  up  out 
of  lone,  ferny  dells,  in  moors,  and  appearing 
before  the  eyes  of  belated  travelers.  I  return- 
ed to  my  stool. 

Superstition  was  with  mc  at  that  moment, 
but  it  was  not  yet  her  hour  for  complete  vic- 
tory. My  blood  was  still  warm  ;  the  mdod  of 
the  revolted  slave  was  still  bracing  me  with  its 
bitter  vigor  ;  I  had  to  stem  a  rapid  rush  of  ret- 
rospective thought  before  I  quailed  to  the  dis- 
mal present. 

All  John  Reed's  violent  tyrannies,  all  his  sis- 
ters' proud  indifference,  all  his  mother's  aver- 
sion, all  the  servants'  partiality,  turned  up  in 
my  disturbed  mind  like  a  dark  deposit  in  a  tur- 
bid well.  Why  was  I  always  suffering,  al- 
ways browbeaten,  always  accused,  forever 
condemned  ■?  Why  could  I  never  please  1 
Why  was  it  useless  to  try  to  win  any  one's  fa- 
vor 1  Eliza,  who  was  headstrong  and  selfish, 
was  respected.  Georgiana,  who  had  a  spoiled 
temper,  a  very  acrid  spite,  a  captious  and  inso- 
lent carriage,  was  universally  indulged.  Her 
beauty — her  pink  cheeks  and  golden  curls — 
seemed  to  give  delight  to  all  who  looked  at 
her,  and  to  purchase  indemnity  for  every  fault. 
John,  no  one  thwarted,  much  less  punished, 
though  he  twisted  the  necks  of  the  pigeons, 
killed  the  little  pea-chicks,  set  the  dogs  at  the 
sheep,  stripped  the  hothouse  vines  of  their 
fruit,  and  broke  the  buds  00"  the  choicest  plants 
in  the  conservatory  ;  he  called  his  mother  "  old 
girl,"  too  ;  sometimes  reviled  her  for  her  dark 
skin,  similar  to  his  own ;  bluntly  disregarded 
her  wishes  ;  not  unfrequently  tore  and  spoiled 
her  silk  attire  ;  and  he  was  still  "  her  own  dar- 
ling." I  dared  commit  no  fault;  1  strove  to 
fulfill  every  duty ;  and  I  was  termed  naughty 
and  tiresome,  sullen  and  sneaking,  from  morn- 
ing to  noon,  and  from  noon  to  night. 

My  head  still  ached  and  bled  with  the  blow 
and  fall  I  had  received.  No  one  had  reproved 
John  for  wantonly  striking  me  ;  and  because  I 
had  turned  against  him  to  avert  further  irra- 
tional violence,  I  was  loaded  with  general  op- 
probrium. 

"Unjust!  unjust!"  said  my  reason,  forced 
by  the  agonizing  stimulus  into  precocious, 
though  transitory  power  ;  and  Resolve,  equal- 
ly wrought  up,  instigated  some  strange  expe- 
dient to  achieve  escape  from  insupportable 
oppression— as  running  away,  or,  if  that  could 
not  be  effected,  never  eating  or  drinking  more, 
and  letting  myself  die. 

What  a  consternation  of  soul  was  mine  that 
dreary  afternoon !  How  all  my  brain  was  in 
tumult,  and  all  my  heart  in  insurrection !     Yet 


in  what  darkness,  what  dense  ignorance,  was 
the  mental  battle  fought !  I  could  not  answer 
the  ceaseless  inward  question — why  I  thus  suf- 
fered ;  now,  at  the  distance  of— I  will  not  say 
how  many  years,  I  see  it  clearly. 

I  was  a  discord  in  Gateshead  Hall ;  I  was 
like  nobody  there  ;  I  had  nothing  in  harmony 
with  Mrs.  Reed,  or  her  children,  or  her  chosen 
vassalage.  If  they  did  not  love  me,  in  fact,  as 
little  did  I  love  them.  They  were  not  bound 
to  regard  with  affection  a  thing  that  could  not 
sympathize  with  one  among  them ;  a  hetero- 
geneous thing,  opposed  to  them  in  tempera- 
ment, in  capacity,  in  propensities ;  a  useless 
thing,  incapable  of  serving  their  interest,  or 
adding  to  their  pleasure;  a  noxious  thing,  cher- 
ishing the  germs  of  indignation  at  their  treat- 
ment— of  contempt  of  their  judgment.  I  know 
that,  had  I  been  a  sanguine,  brilliant,  careless, 
exacting,  handsome,  romping  child,  though 
equally  dependent  and  friendless,  Mrs.  Reed 
would  have  endured  my  presencei  more  com- 
placently ;  her  children  would  have  entertained 
for  me  more  of  the  cordiality  of  fellow-feeling  ; 
the  servants  would  have  been  less  prone  to 
make  me  the  scape-goat  of  the  nursery. 

Daylight  began  to  forsake  the  red-room.  It 
was  past  four  o'clock,  and  the  beclouded  after- 
noon was  tending  to  drear  twilight.  I  heard 
the  rain  still  beating  continuously  on  the  stair- 
case window,  and  the  wind  howling  in  the  grove 
behind  the  hall.  I  grew  by  degrees  cold  as  a 
stone,  and  then  my  courage  sunk.  My  habitual 
mood  of  humiliation,  self-doubt,  forlorn  depres- 
sion, fell  damp  on  the  embers  of  my  decaying 
ire.  All  said  I  was  wicked,  and  perhaps  I  might 
be  so — what  thought  had  I  been,  but  just  con- 
ceiving, of  starving  myself  to  death  1  That 
certainly  was  a  crime ;  and  was  I  fit  to  die  1 
or  was  the  vault  under  the  chancel  of  Gates- 
head Church  an  inviting  bourne  1  In  such 
vault,  I  had  been  told,  did  Mr.  Reed  lie  buried  ; 
and  led  by  this  thought  to  recall  his  idea,  I 
dwelt  on  it  with  gathering  dread.  I  could  not 
remember  him,  but  I  knew  that  he  was  my 
own  uncle — my  mother's  brother ;  that  he  had 
taken  me  when  a  parentless  infant  to  his  house  ; 
and  that,  in  his  last  moments,  he  had  required 
a  promise  of  Mrs.  Reed  that  she  would  rear  and 
maintain  me  as  one  of  her  own  children.  Mrs. 
Reed  probably  considered  she  had  kept  this 
pronuse ;  and  so  she  had,  I  dare  say,  as  well 
as  her  nature  would  permit  her ;  but  how  could 
she  really  like  an  interloper  not  of  her  race,  and 
unconnected  with  her,  after  her  husband's 
death,  by  any  tie  1  It  must  have  been  most 
irksome  to  find  herself  bound  by  a  hard-wrung 
pledge  to  stand  in  the  stead  of  a  parent  to  a 
strange  child  she  could  not  love,  and  to  see  an 
uncongenial  alien  permanently  intruded  on  her 
own  family  group. 

A  singular  notion  dawned  upon  me.  I  doubt- 
ed not — had  never  doubted — that,  if  Mr.  Reed 
had  been  alive,  he  would  have  treated  me  kind- 
ly ;  and  now,  as  I  sat  looking  at  the  white  bed 
and  overshadowed  walls,  occasionally,  also, 
turning  a  fascinated  eye  toward  the  dimly- 
gleaming  mirror,  I  began  to  recall  what  I  had 
heard  of  dead  men,  troubled  in  their  graves  by 
the  violation  of  their  last  wishes,  revisiting  the 
earth  to  punish  the  perjured  and  avenge  the  op- 
pressed ;  and  I  thought  Mr.  Reed's  spirit,  har 


JANE  EYRE. 


aased  by  the  wrongs  of  his  sister's  child,  might 
quit  its  abode — whether  in  the  church  vault,  or 
in  the  unknown  world  of  the  departed — and 
rise  before  me  in  this  chamber.  I  wiped  my 
tears  and  hushed  my  sobs,  fearful  lest  any  sign 
of  violent  grief  might  waken  a  preternatural 
voice  to  comfort  me,  or  elicit  from  the  gloom 
some  haloed  face  bending  over  me  with  strange 
pity.  This  idea,  consolatory  in  theory,  I  felt 
would  be  terrible  if  realized.  With  all  my 
might  I  endeavored  to  stifle  it— I  endeavored 
to  be  firm.  Shaking  my  hair  from  my  eyes,  I 
lifted  my  head  and  tried  to  look  boldly  round 
the  dark  room.  At  this  moment  a  light  gleam- 
ed on  the  wall.  Was  it,  I  asked  myself,  a  ray 
from  the  moon  penetrating  some  aperture  in 
the  blind  1  No ;  moonlight  was  still,  and  this 
stirred.  While  I  gazed,  it  glided  up  to  the  ceil- 
ing and  quivered  over  my  head.  I  can  now 
conjecture  readily  that  this  streak  of  light  was, 
in  all  likelihood,  a  gleam  from  a  lantern,  car- 
ried by  some  one  across  the  lawn ;  but  then, 
prepared  as  my  mind  was  for  horror,  shaken  as 
my  nerves  were  by  agitation,  I  thought  the 
swift-darting  beam  was  a  herald  of  some  com- 
ing vision  from  another  world.  My  heart  beat 
thick — my  head  grew  hot ;  a  sound  filled  my 
ears,  which  I  deemed  the  rushing  of  wings  ; 
something  seemed  near  me  ;  I  was  oppressed, 
suffocated ;  endurance  broke  down ;  I  rushed 
to  the  door  and  shook  the  lock  in  desperate  ef- 
fort. Steps  came  running  along  the  outer  pass- 
age ;  the  key  turned ;  Bessie  and  Abbot  en- 
tered. 

»  Miss  Eyre,  are  you  ill  ]"  said  Bessie. 

"  What  a  dreadful  noise !  it  went  quite 
through  me !"  exclaimed  Abbot. 

"Take  me  out!  Let  me  go  into  the  nur- 
sery !"  was  my  cry. 

"What  fori  Are  you  hurt?  Have  you 
seen  something  ■?"  again  demanded  Bessie. 

"  Oh !  I  saw  a  light,  and  I  thought  a  ghost 
would  come."  I  had  now  got  hold  of  Bessie's 
hand,  and  she  did  not  snatch  it  from  me. 

•'  She  has  screamed  out  on  purpose  ;"  de- 
clared Abbot,  in  some  disgust.  "  And  what  a 
scream !  If  she  had  been  in  great  pain  one 
would  have  excused  it,  but  she  only  wanted  to 
bring  us  all  here :  I  know  her  wicked,  naughty 
tricks." 

"  What  is  all  this  1"  demanded  another  voice 
peremptorily ;  and  Mrs.  Reed  came  along  the 
corridor,  her  cap  flying  wide,  her  gown  rustling 
stormily.  "  Abbot  and  Bessie,  I  believe  I  gave 
orders  that  Jane  Eyre  should  be  left  in  the  red- 
room  till  I  came  to  her  myself" 

"Miss  Jane  screamed  so  loud,  ma'am," 
pleaded  Bessie. 

"  Let  her  go,"  was  the  only  answer.  "Loose 
Bessie's  hand,  child  :  you  cdn  not  succeed  in 
getting  out  by  these  means,  be  assured.  I  ab- 
hor artifice,  particularly  in  children  ;  it  is  my 
duty  to  show  you  that  tricks  will  not  answer ; 
you  will  now  stay  here  an  hour  longer,  and  it 
is  only  on  condition  of  perfect  submission  and 
stillness  that  I  shall  liberate  you  then." 

"  Oh  aunt,  have  pity  !  Forgive  me  !  I  can 
not  endure  it — let  me  be  punished  some  other 
way  !     I  shall  be  killed  if—" 

"  Silence  !  This  violence  is  almost  repul- 
sive ;"  and  so,  no  doubt,  she  felt  it.  I  was  a 
precocious  actress  in  her  eyes :  she  sincerely 


looked  on  me  as  a  compound  of  virulent  pas- 
sions, mean  spirit,  and  dangerous  duplicity. 

Bessie  and  Abbot  having  retreated,  Mrs 
Reed,  impatient  of  my  now  frantic  anguish  and 
wild  sobs,  abruptly  thrust  me  back  and  locked 
me  in,  without  further  parley.  I  heard  hor 
sweeping  away ;  and  soon  after  she  was  gone, 
I  suppose  I  had  a  species  of  fit :  unconscious- 
ness closed  the  scene. 


CHAPTER  IIR 


The  next  thing  I  remember  is,  waking  ap 
with  a  feeling  as  if  I  had  had  a  frightful  night- 
mare, and  seeing  before  me  a  terrible  red 
glare,  crossed  with  thick,  black  bars.  I  hoard 
voices,  too,  speaking  with  a  hollow  sound,  and 
as  if  muffled  by  a  rush  of  wind  or  water :  agi- 
tation, uncertainty,  and  an  all-predominating 
sense  of  terror  confused  my  faculties.  Ere 
long,  I  became  aware  that  some  one  was  hand- 
ling me;  lifting  me  up  and  supporting  me  in 
a  sitting  posture :  and  that  more  tenderly  than 
I  ever  been  raised  or  upheld  before.  I  rest- 
ed my  head  against  a  pillow  or  an  arm,  and  felt 
easy. 

In  five  minutes  more,  the  cloud  of  bewilder- 
ment dissolved ;  I  knew  quite  well  that  I  was 
in  my  own  bed,  and  that  the  red  glare  was  the 
nursery  fire.  It  was  night :  a  candle  burned  on 
the  table ;  Bessie  stood  at  the  bed-foot  with  a 
a  basin  in  her  hand,  and  a  gentleman  sat  in  a 
chair  near  my  pillow,  leaning  over  me. 

I  felt  an  inexpressible  relief,  a  soothing  con- 
viction of  protection  and  security,  when  I  knew 
that  there  was  a  stranger  in  the  room ;  an  in- 
dividual not  belonging  to  Gateshead,  and  not 
related  to  Mrs.  Reed.  Turning  from  Bessie 
(though  her  presence  was  far  less  obnoxious  to 
me  than  that  of  Abbot,  for  instance,  would  have 
been),  I  scrutinized  the  face  of  the  gentleman: 
I  knew  him  ;  it  was  Mr.  Lloyd,  an  apothecary, 
sometimes  called  in  by  Mrs.  Reed  when  the 
servants  were  ailing ;  for  herself  and  the  chil- 
dren she  employed  a  physician. 

"  Well,  who  am  IT'  he  asked. 

I  pronounced  his  name,  offering  him  at  the 
same  time  my  hand :  he  took  it,  smjling  and 
saying,  "  We  shall  do  very  well  by  and  by." 
Then  he  laid  me  down,  and  addressing  Bessie, 
charged  her  to  be  very  careful  that  I  was  not 
disturbed  during  the  night.  Having  given 
some  further  directions,  and  intimated  that  he 
should  call  again  the  next  day,  he  departed,  to 
my  grief;  I  felt  so  sheltered  and  befriended 
while  he  sat  in  the  chair  near  my  pillow  ;  and 
as  he  closed  the  door  after  him,  all  the  room 
darkened  and  my  heart  again  sunk :  inexpress- 
ible sadness  weighed  it  down. 

"  Do  you  feel  as  if  you  should  sleep,  miss  V 
asked  Bessie,  rather  softly. 

Scarcely  dared  I  answer  her ;  for  I  feared 
the  next  sentence  might  be  rough.  "  I  will 
try." 

"  Would  you  like  to  drink,  or  could  you  eat 
any  thing  1"  . 

"  No,  thank  you,  Bessie."  j 

"  Then  I  think  I  shall  go  to  bed,  for  it  is  past 
twelve  o'clock;  but  you  may  call  me  if  you, 
want  any  thing  in  the  night." 


8 


JANE  EYRE. 


It  emboldened  me 


Wonderful  civility  this  ! 
to  ask  a  qaestion. 

"  Bessie,  what  is  the  matter  with  me  1  Am 
lilll" 

"You  fell  sick,  I  rinpposB,  in  the  red-room 
with  crying;  you'll  be  better  soon,  no  doubt." 
Bessie  went  into  the  housemaid's  apartment 
which  was  near.     I  heard  her  say : 

«'  Sarah,  come  and  sleep  with  me  in  the  nur- 
sery ;  I  daren't  for  my  life  be  alone  with  that 
poor  child  to-night ;  she  might  die  :  it's  such  a 
strange  thing  she  should  have  that  fit ;  I  won- 
der if  she  saw^ny  thing.  Missis  was  rather 
loo  hard." 

Sarah  came  back  with  her ;  they  both  went 
to  bed  ;  they  were  whispering  together  for  half 
an  hour  before  they  fell  asleep.  I  caught 
scraps  of  their  conversation,  from  which  I  was 
able  only  too  distinctly  to  infer  the  main  sub- 
ject discussed. 

"  Something  passed  her,  all  dressed  in  white, 
and  vanished  " — "  A  great  black  dog  behind 
him " — "  Three  loud  raps  on  the  chamber 
door" — "A  light  in  the  church-yard  just  over 
his  grave" — &c.,  &c. 

At  last  both  slept :  the  fire  and  the  candle 
went  out.  For  me,  the  watches  of  that  long 
night  passed  in  ghastly  wakefulness  ;  ear,  eye, 
and  mind  were  alike  strained  by  dread :  such 
dread  as  children  only  can  feel. 

No  severe  or  prolonged  bodily  illness  fol- 
lowed this  incident  of  the  red-room  :  it  only 
gave  my  nerves  a  shock,  of  which  I  feel  the 
reverberation  to  this  day.  Yes,  Mrs.  Reed, 
to  you  I  owe  some  fearful  pangs  of  mental 
suffering.  But  I  ought  to  forgive  you,  for  you 
knew  not  what  you  did :  while  rending  my 
heart-strings,  you  thought  you  were  only  up- 
looting  my  bad  propensities. 

Next  day,  by  noon,  I  was  up  and   dressed, 
and  sat  wrapped  in  a  shawl   by  the  nursery 
hearth.     I    felt   physically   weak   and    broken 
down  ;  but  my  worst  ailment  was  an  unutter- 
able wretchedness   of  mind  :  a   wretchedness 
■which  kept  drawing  from  me  silent  tears ;  no 
sooner   had  I  wiped  one  salt   drop   from  my 
cheek  than  another  followed.     Yet.  I  thought, 
I  ought  to  have  been  happy,  for  none  of  the 
Reeds  were  there  ;  they  were  all  gone  out  in 
the  carriage  with  their  mamma  :  Abbot,  too,  was 
sewing  in  another  room,  and   Bessie,  as  she 
moved  hither  and  thither,  putting  away  toys 
and  arranging  drawers,  addressed  to  me  every 
now  and  then  a  word  of  unwonted  kindness. 
This  state  of  things  should  have  been  to  me  a 
paradise  of  peace,  accustomed  as  I  was  to  a 
life  of  ceaseless  reprinnand  and  thankless  fag- 
ging ;'but,  in  fact,  my  racked  nerves  were  now 
in  such  a  state  that  no  calm  could  soothe,  and 
no  pleasure  excite  them  agreeably. 

Bessie  had  been  down  into  the  kitchen,  and 
she  brought  up  with  her  a  tart  on  acertain 
brightly-painted  china  plate,  whose  bird  of 
paradise,  nestling  in  a  wreath  of  convolvuli 
and  rose-buds,  had  been  wont  to  stir  in  me  a 
most  enthusiastic  sense  of  admiration  ;  and 
which  plate  I  had  often  petitioned  to  be 
allowed  to  take  in  my  hand  in  order  to  ex- 
amine it  more  closely,  but  had  always  hitherto 
been  deemed  unworthy  of  such  a  privilefie 
This  precious  vessel  was  now  placed  on  my 
knee,  and  I  was  cordially  invited  (o  eat  the 


circlet  of  delicate  pastry  upon  it.     Vain  favor .' 
coming,  like  most  other  favors,  long  deferred 
and  often  wished  for,  loo  late  !     I  could  not 
eat  the  tart  ;  and  the  plumage  of  the  bird,  the 
tints  of  the  flowers,  seemed  strangely  faded:  I 
put  both  plate  and  tart^iway.     Bessie  asked  if 
I  would  have  a  book :  the  word  book  acted  as  a 
transient  stimulus,  and  1  begged  her  to  fetch 
Gulliver's   Travels    from    the    library.      This 
book    I   had   again    and    again   perused    with 
delight;  I  considered  it  a   narrative  of  facts, 
and  discovered  in  it  a  vein  of  interest  deeper 
than  what  I  found  in  fairy  tales  :  for  as  to  the 
elves,  having  sought  them  in  vain  among  fox- 
glove leaves  and  bells,  under  mushrooms  and 
beneath    the    ground-ivy    mantling   old    wall- 
nooks,  I  had  at  length  made  up  my  mind  to 
the  sad  truth  that  they  were  all  gone  out  of 
England   to  some  savage  country,  where  the 
woods  were  wilder  and  thicker,  and  the  popu- 
lation more  scant :  whereas  Lilliput  and  Brob- 
dignag  being,  in  my  creed,  solid  parts  of  the 
earth's  surface,  I  doubted  not  that  I  might  one 
day,  by  taking  a  long  voyage,  see  with  my  own 
eyes  the  little  fields,  houses,  and  trees,  the 
diminutive  people,  the  tiny  cows,  slienp.  and 
birds   of  the   one  realm ;  and  the    corn-fields 
forest-high,  the  mighty  mastiffs,  the  monster 
cats,  the   tower-like   men   and  women,  of  the 
other.     Yet,  when  this  cherished  volume  was 
now  placed  in   my  hand — when  I  turned  over 
its  leaves,  and  sought  in  its  marvelous  pictures 
the  charm  I  had,  till  now,  never  failed  to  find — 
all  was  eerie   and  dreary ;    the   giants   were 
gaunt  goblins,  the  pigmies  malevolent  and  fear- 
ful imps,  Gulliver  a  most  desolate  wanderer  in 
most  dread  and  dangerous  regions.     I  closed 
the  book,  which  I  dared  no  longer  peruse,  and 
put  it  on  the  table,  beside  the  untasted  tart. 

Bessie  had  now  finished  dusting  and  tidying 
the  room,  and,  having  washed  her  hands,  she 
opened  a  certain  little  drawer,  full  of  splendid 
shreds  of  silk  and  satin,  and  began  making  a 
new  bonnet  for  Georgiana's  doll.  Meantinae 
she  sang  :  her  song  was — 

"  In  the  days  when  we  went  gipsying, 
A  long  time  ago." 

I  had  often  heard  the  song  before,  and  al- 
ways with  lively  delight ;  for  Bessie  had  a 
sweet  voice — at  least,  I  thought  so.  But  now, 
though  her  voice  was  still  sweet,  I  found  in  its 
melody  an  indescribable  sadness.  Sometimes, 
preoccupied  with  her  work,  she  sang  the  re- 
frain very  low,  very  lingeringly  ;  "  A  long  time 
ago"  came  out  like  the  saddest  cadence  of  a 
funeral  hymn.  She  passed  into  another  ballad, 
this  time  a  really  doleful  one  : 

"  My  Teet  they  are  sore,  and  my  limbs  they  are  weary; 
Long  is  the  way,  .tii  !  tlie  mountains  are  wild  ; 
Soon  will  the  twilipli  close  moonless  and  dreary 
■     Over  the  path  of  the  poor  orphan  child. 

"  Why  did  thry  send  i:;o  so  for  and  so  lonely, 

Up  where  the  moors  spread  and  gray  rocks  are  pUe<J1 
Men  are  hard-liearted,  and  kind  angels  only 
Watch  o'er  the  steps  of  a  poor  orphan  chiM. 

"  Yet  distant  and  soft  the  night  breeze  is  blowing. 
Clouds  there  are  none,  and  clear  stars  beam  mild ; 
God,  in  His  mercy,  protection  is  showing. 
Comfort  and  hope  to  the  poor  orjihan  child. 
"  Even  should  1  fall  o'er  the  broken  bridge  paejing, 
Or  stray  in  the  marshes,  by  f»l«e  liglits  beguiled, 
Still  will  my  Father,  wiUi  proniioc  and  blevsaijig, 
Take  to  His  bosom  the  poor  orphan  child. 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  There  is  a  thought  that  for  strength  should  nvail  rae, 
Though  both  of  shelter  and  kindred  despoiled  ; 
Heiivenls  a  home,  and  a  rest  will  not  fail  me  ; 
God  is  a,  friend  to  the  poor  orphan  child." 

"  Come,  Miss  Jane,  don't  cry,"  said  Bessie, 
as  she  finished.  She  might  as  well  have  said 
to  the  fire  "don't  burn!"  hut  how  could  she 
divine  the  morbid  suffering  to  which  I  was  a 
prey  1  In  the  course  of  the  morning  Mr.  Lloyd 
came  again. 

"  What,  already  up  !"  said  he,  as  he  entered 
the  nursery.     "  Well,  nurse,  how  is  she  1" 
Be.ssie  answered  that  I  was  doing  very  well. 
"Then   she  ought   to   look    more   cheerful. 
Come  here,  Miss  Jane ;  your  name  is  Jane,  is 
it  not  ?" 
"Yes,  sir,  Jane  Eyre." 
"  Well,   you    have  been  crying.   Miss  Jane 
Eyre  ;  can  you  tell  me  wl^at  about  1     Have  you 
any  pain  1" 
"No,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  I  dare  say  she  is  crying  because  she 
could  not  go  out  with  missis  in  the  carriage," 
interposed  Bessie. 

"  Surely  not '.  why,  she  is  too  old  for  such 
pettishness." 

I  thought  so  too  ;  and  my  self-esteem  being 
wounded    by    the    false    charge,   I   answered 
promptly,  "  I  never  cried  for  such  a  thing  in 
my  life  :  I  hate  going  out  in  the  carriage.     I 
cry  because  I  am  miserable." 
"Oh,  fie,  miss!"  said  Bessie. 
The  good  apDthecary  appeared  a  little  puz- 
zled.    I  was  standing  before  him  ;  he  fixed  his 
eyes  on  mc  very  steadily  :  his  eyes  were  small 
and   gray  ;  not  very  bright,  but  I  dare  say   I 
should  think  them  shrewd  now  :  he  had  a  hard- 
featured  yet  good-natured  looking  face.   Having 
considered  ine  at  leisure,  he  said — 
"  What  made  you  ill  yesterday  V 
"  She  had  a  fall,"  said  Bessie,  again  putting 
in  her  word. 

"  Fall !  why  that  is  like  a  baby  again  !  Can't 
she  manage  to  walk  at  her  agel  She  must  be 
eight  or  nine  years  old." 

"  I  was  knocked  down,"  was  the  blunt  ex- 
planation jerked  out  of  me  by  another  pang  of 
mortified  pride:  "but  that  did  not  make  me 
ill,"  I  added,  while  Mr.  Lloyd  helped  himself 
to  a  pinch  of  snuff. 

As  he  was  reluming  the  box  to  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  a  loud  hell  rung  for  the  servant's  din- 
ner;  he  knew  what  it  was.  "That's  for  you, 
nurse,"  said  he;  "you  can  go  down  ;  I'll  give 
Miss  Jane  a  lecture  till  you  come  back." 

Bessie  would  rather  have  stayed  ;  but  she 
was  obliged  to  go,  because  punctuality  at  meals 
was  rigidly  enforced  at  Cateshead  Hall. 

"The  fall  did  not  make  you  illl  what  did, 
thenT'  piirsuisd  Mr.  Lloyd,  when  Bessie  was 
gone. 

"  I  was  shut  up  in  a  room  where  there  is  a 
ghost,  till  after  dark." 

I  saw  Mr.  Lloyd  smile  and  frown  at  the  same 
time  :  "  Ghost !  What,  you  are  a  baby  after 
all !     You  are  afraid  of  ghosts  1" 

"Of  Mr.  Reed's  ghost  I  am:  he  died  in  that 
room,  and  was  laid  out  there.  Neither  Bessie 
nor  any  one  else  will  go  into  it  at  night,  if  they 
nan  help  it ;  and  it  was  cruel  to  shut  me  up 


"  Nonsense !  And  is  it  that  makes  you  so 
miserable  1     Are  you  afraid  now  in  daylight  1" 

"  No ;  but  night  will  come  again  before  long  ; 
and,  besides,  I  am  unhappy,  very  unhappy,  for 
other  things." 

"  What  other  things  1  Can  you  tell  me  some 
of  them  V 

How  much  I  wished  to  reply  fully  to  this 
question  !  How  difficult  it  was  to  frame  any 
answer !  Children  can  feel,  but  they  can  not 
analyze  their  feelings ;  and  if  the  analys4s  is 
partially  effected  in  thought,  they  know  not 
how  to  express  the  result  of  the  process  in 
words.  Fearful,  however,  of  losing  this  first 
and  only  opportunity  of  relieving  my  grief  by 
imparting  it,  I,  after  a  disturbed  pause,  con- 
trived to  frame  a  meager,  though,  as  far  as  it 
went,  true  response. 

"  For  one  thing,  I  have  no  father  or  mother, 
brothers  or  sisters." 

"You  have  a  kind  aunt  and  cousins." 

Again  f  paused  ;  then  bunglingly  enounced  ; 

"But  John  Reed  knocked  me  down,  and  my 
aunt  shut  me  up  in  the  red-room." 

Mr.  Lloyd  a  second  time  produced  his  snuff- 
box. 

"  Don't  you  think  Gateshead  Hall  a  very 
beautiful  house  1"  asked  he.  "  Are  you  not 
very  thankful  to  have  such  a  fine  place  to  live 
at?" 

"  It  is  not  my  house,  sir ;  and  Abbot  says  I 
have  less  right  to  be  here  than  a  servant." 

"  Pooh  !  you  can't  be  silly  enough  to  wish  to 
leave  such  a  splendid  place!" 

"  If  I  had  any  where  else  to  go,  I  sheuld  be 
glad  to  leave  it ;  but  I  can  never  get  away  from 
Gateshead  till  I  am  a  woman." 

"  Perhaps  you  may — who  knows  ■?  Have 
you  any  relations  besides  Mrs.  Reedl" 

"I  think  not,  sir." 

"None  belonging  to  your  fatherl" 

"  I  don't  know  :  I  asked  Aunt  Reed  once 
and  she  said  possibly  I  might  have  some  poor, 
low  relations  called  Eyre  ;  but  she  knew  nothing 
about  them." 

"  If  you  had  such,  would  you  like  to  go  to 
themV 

I  reflected.  Poverty  looks  grim  to  grown 
people  ;  still  more  so  to  children :  they  have 
not  much  idea  of  industrious,  working,  respect- 
able poverty ;  they  think  of  the  word  only  aa 
connected  with  ragged  clothes,  scanty  food, 
fireless  grates,  rude  manners,  and  debasing 
vices :  poverty  for  me  was  synonymous  with 
degradation. 

"  No ;  I  should  not  like  to  belong  to  poor 
people,"  was  my  reply. 

"  Not  even  if  they  were  kind  to  you  1" 

I  shook  my  head  :  I  could  not  see  how  poor 
people  had  the  means  of  being  kind  ;  and  then 
to  learn  to  speak  like  them,  to  adopt  their  man- 
ners, to  be  uneducated,  to  grow  up  like  one  of 
the  poor  women  I  saw  sometimes  nursing  their 
children  or  washing  their  clothes  at  the  cottage 
doors  of  the  village  of  Gateshead;  no,  I  was 
not  heroic  enough  to  purchase  liberty  at  the 
price  of  caste. 

"  But  are  your  relatives  so  very  poor!  Are 
they  working  people?" 

"  I  can  not  tell.     Aunt  Reed  says  if  I  have 


alone  without  a  candle — so  cruel  that  I  think  1   any,  they  must  be  a  beggarly  set ;  I  should  not 
shall  never  forget  it."  I  like  to  go  a-begging." 


10 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Would  you  like  to  go  to  schooH" 

Again  I  reflected.  I  scarcely  knew  what 
school  was.  Bessie  sometimes  spoke  of  it  as 
a  place  where  young  ladies  sat  in  the  stocks, 
wore  back-bcfards,  and  were  expected  to  be  ex- 
ceedingly genteel  and  precise ;  John  Reed  hated 
his  school,  and  abused  his  master ;  but  John 
Reed's  tastes  were  no  rule  for  mine,  and  if 
Bessie's  accounts  of  school-discipline  (gather- 
ed from  the  young  ladies  of  a  family  where  she 
had  lived  before  coming  to  Gateshead)  were 
somewhat  appalling,  her  details  of  certain  ac- 
complishments attained  by  these  same  young 
ladies  were,  I  thought,  equally  attractive.  She 
boasted  of  beautiful  paintings  of  landscapes  and 
flowers  by  them  executed  ;  of  songs  they  could 
sing  and  pieces  they  could  play,  of  purses  they 
could  net,  of  French  books  they  could  translate ; 
till  ray  spirit  was  moved  to  emulation  as  I  lis- 
tened. Besides,  school  would  be  a  complete 
change ;  it  implied  a  long  journey,  an  entire 
separation  from  Gateshead,  an  entrance  into  a 
new  life. 

"  I  should  indeed  like  to  go  to  school,"  was 
the  audible  conclusion  of  my  musings. 

"  Well,  well ;  who  knows  what  may  hap- 
pen?' said  Mr.  Lloyd,  as  he  got  up.  "The 
child  ought  to  have  change  of  air  and  scene ;" 
be  added,  speaking  to  himself,  "  nerves  not  in 
a  good  state." 

Bessie  now  returned ;  at  the  same  moment 
the  carriage  was  heard  rolling  up  the  gravel- 
walk. 

"Is  that  your  mistress,  nurse?"  asked  Mr. 
Lloyd  :  "  I  should  like  to  speak  to  her  before  I 
go." 

Bessie  invited  him  to  walk  into  the  break- 
fast-room, and  led  the  way  out.  In  the  inter- 
view which  followed  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Reed,  I  presume,  from  after-occurrences,  that 
the  apothecary  ventured  to  recommend  my  be- 
ing sent  to  school ;  and  the  recommendation 
was  no  doubt  readily  enough  adopted ;  for,  as 
Abbot  said,  in  discussing  the  Subject  with  Bes- 
sie, when  both  sal  sewing  in  the  nursery  one 
night,  after  I  was  in  bed,  and,  as  they  thought, 
asleep,  "  Missis  was,  she  dared  say,  glad  enough 
to  get  rid  of  such  a  tiresome,  ill-conditioned 
child,  who  always  looked  as  if  she  were  watch- 
ing every  body,  and  scheming  plots  underhand." 
Abbot,  I  think,  gave  me  credit  for  being  a  sort 
of  infantine  Guy  Fawkes. 

On  that  same  occasion  I  learned,  for  the  first 
time,  from  Miss  Abbot's  communications  to 
Bessie,  that  my  father  had  been  a  poor  clergy- 
man ;  that  my  mother  had  married  him  against 
the  wishes  of  her  friends,  who  considered  the 
match  beneath  her  ;  that  ray  grandfather  Reed 
was  so  irritated  at  her  disobedience,  he  cut  her 
off  without  a  shilling  ;  that  after  my  mother 
and  father  had  been  married  a  year,  the  latter 
caught  the  typhus  fever  while  visiting  among 
the  poor  of  a  large  manufacturing  town  where 
his  curacy  was  situated,  and  where  that  disease 
was  then  prevalent ;  that  my  mother  took  the 
infection  from  him,  and  both  died  within  a 
month  of  each  other. 

Bessie,  when  she  heard  this  narrative,  sighed 
and  said,  "  Poor  Miss  Jane  is  to  be  pitied,  too, 
Abbot." 

"  Yes,"  responded  Abbot ;  "  if  she  were  a 
nice,  pretty  child,  one  might  compassionate  her 


forlornness ;  but  one  really  can  not  bare  for 
such  a  little  toad  as  that." 

"  Not  a  great  deal,  to  be  sure,"  agreed  Bes- 
sie ;  "  at  any  rate,  a  beauty  like  Miss  Georgi- 
ana  would  be  more  moving  in  the  same  condi- 
tion." 

"  Yes,  I  dote  on  Miss  Georgiaha  !"  cried  the 
fervent  Abbot.  "  Little  darling  !  with  her  long 
curls  and  her  blue  eyes,  and  such  a  sweet  col- 
or as  she  has ;  just  as  if  she  were  painted  ! 
Bessie,  I  could  fancy  a  Welsh  rabbit  for  sup- 
per." 

"  So  could  I — with  a  roast  onion.  Come, 
we'll  go  down."     They  went 


CHAPTER  IV. 

From  ray  discourse  with  Mr.  Lloyd,  and  from 
the  above-reported  conference  between  Bessie 
and  Abbot,  I  gathered  enough  of  hope  to  suffice 
as  a  motive  for  wishing  to  get  well :  a  change 
seemed  near — I  desired  and  waited  it  in  silence. 
It  tarried,  however  ;  days  and  weeks  passed  ;  I 
had  regained  my  normal  slate  of  health,  but  no 
new  allusion  was  made  to  the  subject  over 
which  I  brooded.  Mrs.  Reed  surveyed  me  at 
times  with  a  severe  eye,  but  seldom  addressed 
me.  Since  my  illness  she  had  drawn  a  more 
marked  .line  of  separation  than  ever  between 
me  and  her  own  children  ;  appointing  me  a 
small  closet  to  sleep  in  by  myself,  condemning 
me  to  take  my  meals  alone,  and  pass  all  my 
time  in  the  nursery,  while  my  cousins  were 
constantly  in  the  drawing-room.  Not  a  hint, 
however,  did  she  drop  about  sending  me  to 
school ;  still  I  felt  an  instinctive  certainty  that 
she  would  not  long  endure  me  under  the  same 
roof  with  her  ;  for  her  glance,  now  more  than 
ever,  when  turned  on  me,  expressed  an  insuper- 
able and  rooted  aversion. 

Eliza  and  Georgiana,  evidently  acting  accord- 
ing to  orders,  spoke  to  me  as  little  as  possible.  - 
John  thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  whenever 
he  saw  me,  and  once  attempted  chastisement ; 
but  as  I  instantly  turned  against  him,  roused  by 
the  same  sentiment  of  deep  ire  and  desperate 
revolt  which  had  stirred  my  corruption  before, 
he  thought  it  better  to  desist,  and  ran  from  me 
uttering  execrations  and  vowing  I  had  burst  his 
nose.  I  had  indeed  leveled  at  that  prominent 
feature  as  hard  a  blow  as  my  knuckles  could 
inflict ;  and  when  I  saw  that  either  that  or  my 
look  daunted  him,  I  had  the  greatest  inclination 
to  follow  up  my  advantage  to  purpose  ;  but  he 
was  already  with  his  mamma.  I  heard  him  in 
a  blubbering  tone  commence  the  tale  of  how 
"  that  nasty  Jane  Eyre"  had  flown  at  him  like 
:'  mad  cat —  :  he  was  stopped  rather  harshly  — 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  her,  John  :  I  told 
you  not  to  go  near  her  ;  she  is  not  worthy  of 
notice  ;  I  do  not  choose  that  either  you  or  your 
sisters  should  associate  with  her." 

Here,  leaning  over  the  banister,  I  cried  out 
suddenly  and  without  at  all  deliberating  on  my 
words, 

"  They  are.  not  fit  to  associate  with  me." 

Mrs.  Reed  was  rather  a  stout  woman,  but,  on 
hearing  this  strange  and  audacious  declaration, 
she  ran  nimbly  up  the* stair,  swept  me  like  a 
whirlwind  into  the  nursery,  and  crushing  me 


JANE  EYRE. 


11 


down  on  the  edge  of  ray  crib,  dared  me  in  an 
emphatic  voice  to  rise  from  that  place  or  utter 
one  syllable  during  the  remainder  of  the  day. 

"  What  would  Uncle  Reed  say  to  you  if  he 
were  alive?"  was  my  scarcely  voluntary  de- 
mand. I  say  scarcely  voluntary,  for  it  seemed 
as  if  my  tongue  pronounced  words  without  my 
will  consenting  to  their  utterance :  something 
spoke  out  of  me  over  which  I  had  no  control. 

"What?"  said  Mrs.  Reed,  under  her  breath: 
her  usuallv  cold,  composed  gray  eye  became 
troubled  with  a  look  like  fear;  she  took  her 
hand  from  my  arm  and  gazed  at  me  as  if  she 
really  did  not  know  whether  I  were  child  or 
fiend.     I  was  now  in  for  it. 

"  My  Uncle  Reed  is  in  heaven  and  can  see  all 
you  do  and  think  ;  and  so  can  papa  and  mamma  : 
they  know  how  you  shut  me  up  all  day  long,  and 
how  you  wish  me  dead." 

Mrs.  Reed  soon  rallied  her  spirits  :  she  shook 
me  most  soundly  ;  she  boxed  both  my  ears,  and 
then  left  me  without  a  word.  Bessie  supplied 
the  hiatus  by  a  homily  of  an  hour's  length,  in 
which  she  proved  beyond  a  doubt  that  I  was  the 
most  wicked  and  abandoned  child  ever  reared 
under  a  roof  I  half  believed  her  ;  for  I  felt 
indeed  only  bad  feelings  surging  in  my  breast. 

November,  December,  and  half  of  January 
passed  away.  Christmas  and  the  New  Year 
had  been  celebrated  at  Gateshead  with  the 
usual  festive  cheer ;  presents  had  been  inter- 
changed, dinners  and  evening  parties  given. 
From  every  enjoyment  I  was,  of  course,  ex- 
cluded :  my  share  of  the  gayety  consisted  in 
witnessing  the  daily  appareling  of  Eliza  and 
Georgiana,  and  seeing  them  descend  to  the 
drawing-room,  dressed  out  in  thin  muslin  frocks 
and  scarlet  sashes,  with  hair  elaborately  ring- 
leted ;  and  afterward,  in  listening  to  the  sound 
of  the  piano  or  the  harp  played  below,  to  the 
passing  to  and  fro  of  the  butler  and  footmen,  to 
the  jingling  of  glass  and  china  as  refreshments 
were  handed,  to  the  broken  hum  of  conversa- 
tion as  the  drawing-room  doors  opened  and 
closed.  When  tired  of  this  occupation,  I  would 
retire  from  the  stair-head  to  the  solitary  and 
silent  nursery  :  there,  though  somewhat  sad,  I 
was  not  miserable.  To  speak  truth,  I  had  not 
the  least  wish  to  go  into  company,  for  in  com- 
pany I  was  very  rarely  noticed  ;  and  if  Bessie 
had  but  been  kind  and  companionable,  I  should 
have  deemed  it  a  treat  to  spend  the  evenings 
quietly  with  her,  instead  of  passing  them  under 
the  formidable  eye  of  Mrs.  Reed,  in  a  room  full 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen.  But  Bessie,  as  soon 
as  she  had  dressed  her  young  ladies,  used  to 
take  herself  off  to  the  lively  regions  of  the 
kitchen  and  housekeeper's  room,  generally  bear- 
ing the  candle  along  with  her  :  I  then  sat  with 
my  doll  on  my  knee,  till  the  fire  got  low,  glancing 
round  occasionally  to  make  sure  that  nothing 
worse  than  myself  haunted  the  shadowy  room  ; 
and  when  the  embers  sunk  to  a  dull  red,  I  un- 
dressed hastily,  tugging  at  knots  and  strings  as 
I  best  might,  and  sought  shelter  from  cold  and 
darkness  in  my  crib.  To  this  crib  I  always 
took  my  doll :  human  beings  must  love  some- 
thing, and,  in  the  dearth  of  worthier  objects  of 
affection,  I  contrived  to  find  a  pleasure  in  loving 
and  cherishing  a  faded  graven  image,  shabby  as 
a  miniature  scare-crow.  It  puzzles  me  now  to 
roraember  with  what  absurd  sincerity  I  doted 


on  this  wooden  toy,  half  fancying  it  alive  and 
capable  of  sensation.  I  could  not  sleep  unless 
it  was  folded  in  my  night-gown  ;  and  when  it 
lay  there  safe  and  warm,  I  was  comparatively 
happy,  believing  it  happy  likewise. 

Long  did  the  hours  seem  while  I  waited  the 
departure  of  the  company,  and  listened  for  the 
sound  of  Bessie's  step  on  the  stairs  :  sometimes 
she  would  come  up  in  the  interval  to  seek  her 
thimble  or  her  scissors,  or  perhaps  to  bring  me 
something  by  way  of  supper — a  bun  or  a  cheese- 
cake ;  then  she  would  sit  on  the  bed  while  I  ate 
it,  and  when  I  had  finished  she  wxjuld  tuck  the 
clothes  round  me  ;  and  twice  she  kissed  me,  and 
said,  "Good  night.  Miss  Jane."  When  thus 
gentle,  Bessie  seemed  to  me  the  best,  prettiest, 
kindest  being  in  the  world  ;  and  I  wished  most 
intensely  that  she  would  always  be  so  pleasant 
and  amiable,  and  never  push  me  about,  or  scold, 
or  task  me  unreasonably,  as  she  was  too  often 
wont  to  do.  Bessie  Lee  must,  I  think,  ha:ve 
been  a  girl  of  good  natural  capacity ;  for  she 
was  smart  in  all  she  did,  and  had  a  remarkable 
knack  of  narrative :  so,  at  least,  I  judge  from 
the  impression  made  on  me  by  her  nursery 
tales.  She  was  pretty,  too,  if  my  recollections 
of  her  face  and  person  are  correct.  I  remem- 
ber her  as  a  slim  young  woman,  with  black 
hair,  dark  eyes,  very  nice  features,  and  good, 
clear  complexion  ;  but  she  had  a  capricious 
and  hasty  temper,  and  indifferent  ideas  of 
principle  or  justice :  still,  such  as  she  was, 
I  preferred  her  to  any  one  else  at  Gateshead 
Hall. 

It  was  thf  fifteenth  of  January,  about  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  :  Bessie  was  gone  down 
to  breakfast  ;  my  cousins  had  not  yet  been  sum- 
moned to  their  mamma  ;  Eliza  was  putting  on 
her  bonnet  and  warm  garden-coat  to  go  and 
feed  her  poultry,  an  occupation  of  which  she 
was  fond  ;  and  not  less  so  of  selling  the  eggs  to 
the  housekeeper  and  hoarding  up  the  money 
she  thus  obtained.  She  had  a  turn  for  traffick, 
and  a  marked  propensity  for  saving,  shown  not 
only  in  the  vending  of  eggs  and  chickens,  but 
also  in  driving  hard  bargains  with  the  gardener 
about  flower-roots,  seeds,  and  slips  of  plants ; 
that  functionary  having  orders  from  Mrs.  Reed 
to  buy  of  his  young  lady  all  the  products  of  her 
parterre  she  wished  to  sell :  and  Eliza  would 
have  sold  the  hair  off  her  head  if  she  could  have 
made  a  handsome  profit  thereby.  As  to  her 
money,  she  first  secreted  it  in  odd  corners, 
wrapped  in  a  rag  or  an  old  curl-paper ;  but, 
some  of  these  hoards  having  been  discovered 
by  the  housemaid,  Eliza,  fearful  of  one  day  losing 
her  valued  treasure,  consented  to  intrust  it  to 
her  mother,  at  a  usurious  rate  of  interest — fifty 
or  sixty  per  cent. — which  interest  she  exacted 
every  quarter,  keeping  her  accounts  in  a  little 
book  with  anxious  accuracy. 

Georgiana  sat  on  a  high  stool,  dressing  her 
hair  at  the  glass  and  interweaving  her  curls 
with  artificial  flowers  and  faded  feathers,  of 
which  she  had  found  a  store  in  a  drawer  in  the 
attic.  I  was  making  my  bed,  having  received 
strict  orders  from  Bessie  to  get  it  arranged 
before  she  returned  (for  Bessie  now  frequently 
employed  me  as  a  sort  of  under  nursery  maid, 
to  tidy  the  room,  dust  the  chairs,  &c.).  Having 
spread  the  quilt  and  folded  my  night-dress,  J 
went  to  the  window-scat  to  put  in  order  some 


12 


JANE  EYRE 


picture-books  and  doll's  house  furniture  scat- 
tered there  ;  an  abrupt  command  from  Geor- 
giana  to  let  her  playthings  alone  (for  the  tiny 
chairs  and  mirrors,  the  fairy  plates  and  cups 
were  her  property)  stopped  my  proceedings ; 
and  then,  for  lack  of  other  occupation,  I  fell  to 
breathing  on  the  frost-flowers  with  which  the 
window  was  fretted,  and  thus  clearing  a  space 
in  the  glass  through  which  I  might  look  out  on 
the  grounds,  where  all  was  still  and  petrified 
under  the  influence  of  a  hard  frost. 

From  this  window  were  visible  the  porter's 
lodge  and  the  carriage  road,  and  just  as  I  had 
dissolved  so  much  of  the  silver-white  foliage 
veiling  the  panes  as  left  room  to  look  out,  I 
saw  the  gates  thrown  open  and  a  carriage  roll 
through.  I  watched  it  ascending  the  drive  with 
indifference :  carriages  often  came  to  Gates- 
head, but  none  ever  brought  visitors  in  whom 
I  was  interested  ;  it  stopped  in  front  of  the 
house,  the  door-bell  rung  loudly,  the  new-comer 
was  admitted.  All  this  being  nothing  to  me, 
my  vacant  attention  soon  found  livelier  attrac- 
tion in  the  spectacle  of  a  little  hungry  robin, 
which  came  and  chirped  on  the  twigs  of  the 
leafless  cherry-tree  nailed  against  the  wall  near 
the  casement.  The  remains  of  my  breakfast 
of  bread  and  milk  stood  on  the  table,  and  hav- 
ing crumbled  a  morsel  of  roll,  I  was  tugging  at 
the  sash  to  put  out  the  crumbs  on  the  window- 
sill,  when  Bessie  came  running  up  stairs  into 
the  nursery. 

"  Miss  Jane,  take  off  your  pinafore  :  what  are 
you  doing  there  T  Have  you  washed  your  hands 
and  face  this  morning  1"  I  gave  another  tug 
before  I  answered,  for  I  wanted  the  bird  to  be 
secure  of  its  bread  :  the  sash  yielded  ;  I  scat- 
tered the  crumbs,  some  on  the  stone  sill,  some 
on  the  cherry-tree  bough,  then,  closing  the  win- 
dow, I  replied  : 

"  No,  Bessie  ;  I  have  only  just  finished  dust- 
ing." 

"  Troublesome,  careless  child  !  and  what  are 
you  doing  now?  You  look  quite  red,  as  if  you 
had  been  about,  some  mischief:  what  were  you 
opening  the  window  fori" 

I  was  spared  the  trouble  of  answering,  for 
Bessie  seemed  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  listen  to 
explanations  ;  she  hauled  me  to  the  washstand, 
inflicted  a  mcrciles-.^,  but,  happily,  brief  scrub 
on  my  face  and  Lands  with  soap,  water,  and  a 
coarse  towel ;  disciplined  my  head  with  a  brist- 
ly brush,  denuded  me  of  my  pinafore,  and  then 
hurrying  me  to  the  lop  of  the  stairs,  bid  me  go 
down  directly,  as  I  was  wanted  in  the  break- 
fast-room. 

I  would  have  asked  who  wanted  me  ;  I  would 
have  demanded  if  Mrs.  Reed  was  there  ;  but 
Bessie  was  already  gone,  and  had  closed  the 
nursery  door  upon  me  :  I  slowly  descended. 
For  nearly  three  months  I  had  never  been  call- 
ed to  Mrs.  Reed's  presence  ;  restricted  so  long 
to  the  nursery,  the  breakfast,  dining,  and  draw- 
ing-rooms were  biscome  for  me  awful  regions 
on  which  it  dismayed  me  to  intrude. 

I  now  stood  in  the  empty  hall ;  before  me 
was  the  breakfast-room  door,  and  I  slopped, 
intimidated  and  trembling.  What  a  miserable 
Utile  poltroon  had  fear,  engendered  of  unjust 
punishment,  made  of  me  in  those  days  !  I  feared 
to  return  lo  the  nursery  ;  I  feared  to  go  forward 
to  the  parlor  -.  ten  minutes  I  siood  in  agitated 


hesitation  :  the  vehement  ringing  of  the  break- 
fast-room bell  decided  me  ;  I  must  enter. 

"Who  could  want  meV  I  asked  inwardly, 
as  with  both  hands  T  turned  the  stiff  door-han- 
dle, which,  for  a  second  or  two,  resisted  my 
efforts.  "  What  should  I  see  besides  Aunt 
Reed  in  the  apartment— a  man,  or  a  woman?" 
The  handle  turned,  the  door  unclosed,  and 
passing  through  and  courtesying  low,  I  looked 
up  at — a  black  pillar  ! — such,  at  least,  appeared 
to  me,  at  first  sight,  the  straight,  narrow,  sable- 
clad  shape  standing  erect  on  the  rug  :  the  grim 
face  at  the  top  was  like  a  carved  mask,  placed 
above  the  shaft  by  way  of  capital. 

Mts.  Reed  occupied  her  usual  seat  by  the 
fireside  :  she  made  a  signal  to  me  to  approach  ; 
I  did  so,  and  she  introduced  me  to  the  stony 
stranger  with  these  words  :  "  This  is  the  little 
girl  respecting  whom  I  applied  to  you." 

He,  for  it  was  a  man,  turned  his  head  slowly 
toward  where  I  stood,  and  having  examined 
me  with  the  two  inquisitive-looking  gray  eyes 
which  twinkled  under  a  pair  of  bushy  brows, 
said,  solemnly,  and  in  a  bass  voice  :  "  Her  siae 
is  small ;  what  is  her  age?" 

"Ten  years." 

"So  much?"  was  the  doubtful  answer  ;  and 
he  prolonged  his  scrutiny  some  minutes.  Pres- 
ently he  addressed  me. 

"  Your  name,  little  girl  ?" 

"Jane  Eyre,  sir." 

In  uttering  these  words  I  looked  up:  he 
seemed  to  me  a  tall  gentleman  ;  but  then  I  was 
very  little  ;  his  features  were  large,  and  they 
and  all  the  lines  of  his  frame  were  equally  harsh 
and  prim. 

"  Well.  Jane  Eyre,  and  are  you  a  good  child  ?" 

Impossible  to  reply  to  this  in  the  affirmative — 
my  little  world  held  a  contrary  opinion — I  was 
silent.  Mrs.  Reed  answered  for  me  by  an  ex- 
pressive shake  of  the  head,  adding  soon,  "  Per- 
haps the  less  said  on  that  subject  the  better, 
Mr.  Brocklehurst." 

"  Sorry  indeed  to  hear  it !  she  and  I  must 
have  some  talk  ;"  and,  bending  from  the  per- 
pendicular, he  installed  his  person  in  the  arm- 
chair, opposite  Mrs.  Reed's.  "  Come  here," 
he  said. 

I  stepped  across  the  rug ;  he  placed  me 
square  and  straight  before  him.  What  a  face 
he  had,  now  that  it  was  almost  on  a  level  with 
mine  !  what  a  great  nose  !  and  what  a  mouth  ! 
and  what  large,  prominent  teeth  ! 

"  No  sight  so  sad  as  that  of  a  naughty  child," 
he  began,  "especially  a  naughty  little  girl.  Do 
you  know  where  the  wicked  go  after  death?" 

'■  They  go  to  hell,"  was  my  ready  and  ortho- 
ilox  answer. 

•'  And  what  is  hell  ?    Can  you  tell  me  that  V 

"  A  pit  full  of  fire." 

"  And  should  you  like  to  fall  into  that  pit,  and 
10  be  burning  there  forever?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  What  must  you  do  to  avoid  it?" 

I  deliberated  a  moment.  My  answer,  whea 
it  did  come,  was  objectionable.  "  I  must  keep 
in  good  health,  and  not  die." 

"  How  can  you  keep  in  good  health?  Chil- 
dren younger  than  you  die  daily.  I  buried  a 
little  child  of  five  years  old,  only  a  day  or  two 
since-  -a  good  little  child,  whose  soul  is  now 
in  heaven.     It  is  lo  be  feared  the  same  could 


JANE  EYRE. 


13 


not  be  said  of  you,  were  you  to  be  called 
hence." 

Not  being  in  a  condition  to  remove  his  doubt, 
I  only  cast  my  eyes  down  on  the  two  large  feet 
planted  on  the  rug,  and  sighed,  wishing  myself 
far  enough  away. 

i  "  I  hope  that  sigh  is  from  the  heart,  and  that 
you  repent  ever  having  been  the  occasion  of 
discomfort  to  your  excellent  benefactress." 

"  Benefactress  !  benefactress  !"  said  I,  in- 
wardly. "They  all  call  Mrs.  Reed  my  bene- 
factress ;  if  so,  a  benefactress  is  a  disagreeable 
thing.", 

"  Do  yeu  say  your  prayers  night  and  morn- 
ing?" continued  my  interrogator. 
. ,     "Yes,  sir." 

"  Do  you  read  your  Bible  1" 
(     "  Sometimes." 
I     "With  pleasure  1     Are  you  fond  of  it]" 

"  I  like  Revelations  and  the  book  of  Daniel, 
and  Genesis  and  Samuel,  and  a  little  bit  of  Ex- 
odus, and  some  parts  of  Kings  and  Chronicles, 
and  Job  and  Jonah." 

"And  the  Psalms]  I  hope  you  like  them." 
,     "No,  sir." 

"  No  !  oh,  shocking  !  I  have  a  little  boy 
younger  than  you,  who  knows  six  psalms  by 
heart ;  and  when  you  ask  him  which  he  would 
rather  have,  a  gingerbread-nut  to  eat,  or  a  verse 
of  a  psalm  to  learn,  he  says :  '  Oh,  the  verse 
of  a  psalm !  Angels  sing  psalms,'  says  he  ; 
*  I  wish  to  be  a  little  angel  here  below  ;'  he 
then  gets  two  nuts  in  recompense  for  his  infant 
piety." 

"  Psalms  are  not  interesting,"  I  remarked. 
I  "  That  proves  you  have  a  wicked  heart ; 
and  you  must  pray  to  God  to  change  it — to 
give  you  a  new  and  a  clean  one — to  take  away 
your  heart  of  stone  and  give  you  a  heart  of 
flesh." 

I  was  about  to  propound  a  question,  touching 
the  manner  in  which  that  operation  of  chang- 
ing my  heart  was  to  be  performed,  when  Mrs. 
Reed  interposed,  telling  me  to  sit  down  ;  she 
then  proceeded  to  carry  on  the  conversation 
herself 

"  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  I  believe  I  intimated  in 
the  letter  which  I  wrote  to  you  three  weeks 
ago,  that  this  little  girl  has  not  quite  the  char- 
acter and  disposition  I  could  wish.  Should  you 
admit  her  into  Lowood  school,  I  should  be  glad 
if  the  superintendent  and  teachers  were  re- 
quested to  keep  a  strict  eye  on  her,  and,  above 
all,  to  guard  against  her  worst  fault — a  ten- 
dency to  deceit.  I  mention  this  in  your  hear- 
ing, Jane,  that  you  may  not  attempt  to  impose 
on  Mr.  Brocklehurst." 

Well  might  I  dread — well  might  I  dislike 
Mrs.  Reed,  for  it  was  her  nature  to  wound  me 
cruelly.  Never  was  I  happy  in  her  presence. 
However  carefully  I  obeyed,  however  stren- 
uously I  strove  to  please  her,  my  efforts  were 
still  repulsed  and  repaid  by  such  sentences  as 
the  above.  Now,  uttered  before  a  stranger, 
the  accusation  cut  me  to  the  heart.  I  dimly 
perceived  that  she  was  already  obliterating 
hope  from  the  new  phase  of  existence  which 
she  destined  me  to  enter  ;  I  felt,  though  I  could 
not  have  expressed  the  feeling,  that  she  was 
sowing  aversion  and  unkindness  along  my  fu- 
ture path ;  I  saw  myself  transformed,  under 
Mr.  Brocklehurst's  eye,  into  an  artful,  noxious 


child,  and  what  coukl  I  do  to  remedy  the  in- 
jury]" 

"Nothing,  indeed,"  thought  I,  as  I  strug- 
gled to  repress  a  sob,  and  hastily  wiped  away 
some  tears,  the  impotent  evidences  of  my  an- 
guish. 

"  Deceit  is,  indeed,  a  sad  fault  in  a  child," 
said  Mr.  Brocklehurst ;  "  it  is  akin  to  false- 
hood, and  all  liars  will  have  their  portion  in  the 
lake  burning  with  fire  and  brimstone.  She 
shall,  however,  be  watched,  Mrs.  Reed.  I  will 
speak  to  Miss  Temple  and  the  teachers." 

"  I  should  wish  her  to  be  brought  up  in  a 
manner  suiting  her  prospects,"  continued  my 
benefactress ;  "  to  be  made  useful,  to  be  kept 
humble  ;  as  for  the  vacations,  she  will,  with 
your  permission,  spend  them  always  at  Lo- 
wood." 

"  Your  decisions  aie  perfectly  judicious,  mad- 
am," returned  Mr.  Brocklehurst.  "  Humility 
is  a  Christian  grace,  and  one  peculiarly  appro- 
priate to  the  pupils  of  Lowood  ;  I,  therefore, 
direct  that  especial  care  shall  be  bestowed  on 
its  cultivation  among  them.  I  have  studied 
how  best  to  mortify  in  them  the  worldly  senti- 
ment of  pride,  and,  only  the  other  day,  I  had  a 
pleasing  proof  of  my  success.  My  second 
daughter,  Augusta,  went  with  her  mamma  to 
visit  the  school,  and  on  her  return  she  ex- 
claimed :  '  Oh,  dear,  papa,  how  quiet  and  plain 
all  the  girls  at  Lowood  look  !  with  their  hair 
combed  behind  their  ears,  and  their  long  pina- 
fores, and  those  little  holland  pockets  outside 
their  frocks — they  are  almost  all  like  poor  peo- 
ple's children!'  and,  said  she,  'they  looked  at 
my  dress  and  mamma's  as  if  they  had  never 
seen  a  silk  gown  before.'  " 

"  This  is  the  state  of  things  I  quite  approve," 
returned  Mrs.  Reed  ;  "  had  I  sought  all  Eng- 
land over,  I  could  scarcely  have  found  a  sys- 
tem more  exactly  fitting  a  child  like  Jane  Eyre. 
Consistency,  my  dear  Mr.  Brocklehurst  ;  I  ad- 
vocate consistency  in  all  things." 

"  Consistency,  madam,  is  the  first  of  Christ- 
ian duties  ;  and  it  has  been  observed  in  every 
arrangement  connected  with  the  establishment 
of  Lowood  :  plain  fare,  simple  attire,  unsophis- 
ticated accommodations,  hardy  and  active  hab- 
•  its  ;  such  is  the  order  of  the  day  in  the  house 
and  its  inhabitants." 

"  Quite  right,  sir.  I  may,  then,  depend  upon 
this  child  being  received  as  a  pupil  at  Lowood, 
and  there  being  trained  in  conformity  to  her  po- 
sition and  prospects  ]" 

"  Madam,  you  may  ;  she  shall  be  placed  in 
that  nursery  of  chosen  plants  ;  and  I  trust  she 
will  show  herself  grateful  to  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  her  election." 

•'  I  will  send  her,  then,  as  soon  as  possible 
Mr.  Brocklehurst  ;  for,  I  assure  you,  I  feel 
anxious  to  be  relieved  of  a  responsibility  that 
was  becoming  too  irksome." 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,  madam ;  and  now  I 
wish  you  good  morning.  I  shall  return  to 
Brocklehurst  Hall  in  the  course  of  a  week  or 
two ;  my  good  friend,  the  archdeacon,  will  not 
permit  me  to  leave  him  sooner.  I  shall  send 
Miss  Temple  notice  that  she  is  to  expect  a  new 
girl,  so  that  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  re- 
ceiving her.     Good-by." 

"  Good-by  Mr.  Brocklehurst ;  remember  me 
to  Mrs.  and  Miss   Brocklehurst,  and   to  Au- 


14 


JANE  EYRE. 


gusta  and  Theodore,  and  Master  Broughton 
Brocklehurst." 

"I  will,  madam.  Little  girl,  here  is  a  book 
entitled  the  '  Child's  Guide  ;'  read  it,  with  pray- 
er, especially  that  part  containing  an  '  account 

of  the  awfully  sudden  death  of  Martha  G , 

a  naughty  child,  addicted  to  falsehood  and  de- 
ceit.' " 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Brocklehurst  put  into 
my  hand  a  thin  pamphlet  sewn  in  a  cover  ;  and 
having  rung  for  his  carriage,  he  departed. 

Mrs.  Reed  and  I  were  left  alone  ;  some  min- 
utes passed  in  silence  ;  she  was  sewing,  I  was 
watching  her.  Mrs.  Reed  might  be,  at  that 
time,  some  six  or  seven-and-thirty  ;  she  was  a 
woman  of  robust  frame,  square-shouldered  and 
strong-limbed,  not  tall,  and  though  stout  not 
obese;  she  had  a  somewhat  large  face,  the 
under-jaw  being  much  developed  and  very  sol- 
id ;  her  brow  was  low,  her  chin  large  and  prom- 
inent, mouth  and  nose  sufficiently  regular  ;  un- 
der her  light  eyebrows  glimmered  an  eye  de- 
void of  ruth  ;  her  skin  was  dark  and  opaque, 
her  hair  nearly  flaxen  ;  her  constitution  was 
sound  as  a  bell ;  illness  never  came  near  her  ; 
she  was  an  exact,  clever  manager,  her  house- 
hold and  tenantry  were  thoroughly  under  her 
control ;  her  children  only,  at  times  defied  her 
authority  and  laughed  it  to  scorn  ;  she  dressed 
well,  and  had  a  presence  and  port  calculated 
to  set  off  handsome  attire. 

Sitting  on  a  low  stool,  a  few  yards  from  her 
arm-chair,  I  examined  her  figure  ;  I  perused 
her  features.  In  my  hand  I  held  the  tract, 
containing  the  sudden  death  of  the  liar ;  to 
which  narrative  my  attention  had  been  pointed 
as  to  an  appropriate  warning.  What  had  just 
passed — what  Mrs.  Reed  had  said  concerning 
me  to  Mr.  Brocklehurst — the  whole  tenor  of 
their  conversation  was  recent,  raw,  and  sting- 
ing in  my  mind ;  I  had  felt  every  word  as 
acutely,  as  I  had  heard  it  plainly ;  and  a  pas- 
sion of  resentment  fermented  now  within  me. 

Mrs.  Reed  looked  up  from  her  work  ;  her 
eye  settled  on  mine,  her  fingers  at  the  same 
time  suspended  their  nimble  movements. 

"Go  out  of  the  room  ;  return  to  the  nursery," 
was  her  mandate.  My  look  or  something  else 
must  have  struck  her  as  offensive,  for  she 
spoke  with  extreme,  though  suppressed,  irrita- 
tion. I  got  up,  I  went  to  the  door,  I  came 
back  again ;  I  walked  to  the  window,  across 
the  room,  then  close  up  to  her. 

Speak  I  must ;  I  had  been  trodden  on  severe- 
Jy  and  must  turn  ;  but  how  ?  What  strength 
had  I  to  dart  retaliation  at  my  antagonist !  I 
gathered  my  energies  and  launched  them  in 
this  blunt  sentence : 

"  I  am  not  deceitful ;  if  I  were,  I  should  say 
I  loved  you ;  but  I  declare,  I  do  not  love  you ; 
I  dislike  you  the  worst  of  any  body  in  the  world 
except  John  Reed  ;  and  this  book  about  the 
liar,  you  may  give  it  to  your  girl,  Georgiana, 
for  it  is  she  who  tells  lies,  and  not  I." 

Mrs.  Reed's  hands  still  lay  on  her  work  in- 
active ;  her  eye  of  ice  continued  to  dwell  freez- 
mgly  on  mine  : 

"  What  more  have  you  to  say  V  she  asked, 
rather  in  the  tone  in  which  a  person  might  ad- 
dress an  opponent  of  adult  age  than  such  as  is 
ordinarily  used  to  a  child. 

Thai  eye  of  hers,  that  voice,  stirred  every 


antipathy  I  had.  Shaking  from  head  to  foot, 
thrilled  with  ungovernable  excitement,  I  con- 
tinued : 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  no  relation  of  mine ;  I 
will  never  call  you  aunt  again  as  long  as  I  live 
I  will  never  come  to  see  you  when  I  am  grown 
up  ;  and  if  any  one  asks  me  how  I  liked  you, 
and  how  you  treated  me,  I  will  say  the  very 
thought  of  you  makes  me  sick,  and  that  you 
treated  me  with  miserable  cruelty." 

"  How  dare  you  affirm  that,  Jane  Eyre  1" 

"How  dare  I,  Mrs.  Reedl  How  dare  It 
Because  it  is  the  truth.  You  think  I  have  no 
feeUngs,  and  that  I  can  live  without  one  bit  of 
love  or  kindness ;  but  I  can  not  hve  so ;  and 
you  have  no  pity.  I  shall  remember  how  you 
thrust  me  back — roughly  and  violently  thrust 
me  back  into  the  red-room,  and  locked  me  up 
there — to  my  dying  day  ;  though  I  was  in 
agony  ;  though  I  cried  out,  while  suffocating 
with  distress,  '  Have  mercy  !  Have  mercy, 
Aunt  Reed  !'  And  that  punishment  you  made 
me  suffer  because  your  wicked  boy  struck  me — 
knocked  me  down  for  nothing.  I  will  tell  any 
body  who  asks  me  questions,  this  exact  tale. 
People  think  you  a  good  woman  ;  but  you  are 
bad — hard-hearted.     Fom  are  deceitful !" 

Ere  I  had  finished  this  reply,  my  soul  begaa 
to  expand,  to  exult,  with  the  strangest  sense  of 
freedom,  of  triumph,  I  ever  felt.  It  seemed  as 
if  an  invisible  bond  had  burst,  and  that  I  had 
struggled  out  into  unhoped-for  hberty.  Not 
without  cause  was  this  sentiment ;  Mrs.  Reed 
looked  frightened  ;  her  work  had  slipped  from 
her  knee  ;  she  was  lifting  up  her  hands,  rock- 
ing herself  to  and  fro,  and  even  twisting  her 
face  as  if  she  would  cry. 

"  Jane,  you  are  under  a  mistake  ;  what  is 
the  matter  with  you  ]  Why  do  you  tremble 
so  violently!  Would  you  like  to  drink  some 
water  1" 

"No,  Mrs.  Reed." 

"  Is  there  any  thing  else  you  wish  for,  Jane? 
I  assure,  I  desire  to  be  your  friend." 

"  Not  you.  You  told  Mr.  Brocklehurst  I  had 
a  bad  character,  a  deceitful  disposition  ;  and 
I'll  let  every  body  at  Lowood  know  what  you 
are,  and  what  you  have  done." 

"  Jane,  you  don't  understand  these  things ; 
children  must  be  corrected  for  their  faults." 

"  Deceit  is  not  my  fault !"  I  cried  out  in  a 
savage,  high  voice. 

"  But  you  are  passionate,  Jane ;  that  you 
must  allow  ;  and  now  return  to  the  nursery, 
there's  a  dear,  and  lie  down  a  little." 

"I  am  not  your  dear;  I  can  not  lie  down  ; 
send  me  to  school  soon,  Mrs.  Reed,  for  I  hate 
to  live  here." 

"  I  will  indeed  send  her  to  school  soon," 
murmured  Mrs.  Reed,  sotto  voce  ;  and  gathering 
up  her  work,  she  abruptly  quitted  the  apart- 
ment. 

I  was  left  there  alone,  winner  of  the  field. 
It  was  the  hardest  battle  I  had  fought,  and  the 
first  victory  I  had  gained.  I  stood  awhile  oa 
the  rug,  where  Mr.  Brocklehurst  had  stood,  and 
I  enjoyed  my  conqueror's  solitude.  First,  I 
smiled  to  myself  and  felt  elate;  but  this  fierce 
pleasure  subsided  in  me  as  fast  as  did  the  ac- 
celerated throb  of  my  pulses.  A  child  can  not 
quarrel  with  its  elders,  as  I  had  done ;  can  not 
give  its  furious  feelings  uncontrolled  play,  as  I 


JANE  EYRE. 


15 


"bad  given  mine,  without  experiencing  after- 
ward the  pang  of  remorse  and  the  chill  of 
reaction.  A  ridge  of  lighted  heath,  alive,  glan- 
cing, devouring,  would  have  been  a  meet  em- 
blem of  my  mind  when  I  accused  and  menaced 
Mrs.  Reed  ;  the  same  ridge,  black  and  blasted 
after  the  flames  are  dead,  would  have  repre- 
sented as  metely  my  subsequent  condition, 
when  half  an  hour's  silence  and  reflection 
had  shown  me  the  madness  of  my  conduct, 
and  the  dreariness  of  my  hated  and  hating  posi- 
tion. 

Something  of  vengeance  I  had  tasted  for  the 
first  time  ;  as  aromatic  wine  it  seemed  on 
swallowing,  warm  and  racy ;  its  after-flavor, 
metallic  and  corroding,  gave  me  a  sensation  as 
if  I  had  been  poisoned.  Willingly  would  I  now 
have  gone  and  asked  Mrs.  Reed's  pardon  ;  but 
I  knew,  partly  from  experience  and  partly  from 
instinct,  that  was  the  way  to  make  her  repulse 
me  with  double  scorn,  thereby  re-exciting  ev- 
ery turbulent  impulse  of  my  nature. 

I  would  fain  exercise  some  better  faculty  than 
that  of  fierce  speaking  ;  fain  find  some  nourish- 
ment for  some  less  fiendish  feeling  than  that  of 
somber  indignation.  I  took  a  book,  some  Ara- 
bian tales  ;  I  sat  down  and  endeavored  to  read. 
I  could  make  no  sense  of  the  subject ;  my  own 
thoughts  swam  always  between  me  and  the 
page  I  had  always  found  fascinating.  I  opened 
a  glass  door  in  the  breakfast-room  ;  the  shrub- 
bery was  quite  still;  the  black  frost  reigned, 
unbroken  by  sun  or  breeze,  through  the  grounds. 
I  covered  my  head  and  arms  with  the  skirt  of 
my  frock,  and  went  out  to  walk  in  a  part  of  the 
plantation  which  was  quite  sequestered  ;  but  I 
found  no  pleasure  in  the  silent  trees,  the  fal- 
len fir-cones,  the  congealed  relics  of  autumn, 
russet  leaves,  swept  by  past  winds  in  heaps, 
and  now  stiffened  together.  I  leaned  against 
a  gate,  and  looked  into  an  empty  field  where 
no  sheep  were  feeding,  where  the  short  grass 
was  nipped  and  blanched.  It  was  a  very  gray 
day ;  a  most  opaque  sky,  "  ending  on  snaw," 
canopied  all ;  thence  flakes  fell  at  intervals, 
which  settled  on  the  hard  path  and  on  the 
hoary  lea  without  melting.  I  stood,  a  wretch- 
ed child  enough,  whispering  to  myself  over  and 
over  again,  "What  shall  I  do?  what  shall  I 
do?" 

All  at  once  I  heard  a  clear  voice  call,  "  Miss 
Jane  !  where  are  you  1     Come  to  lunch  !" 

It  was  Bessie,  I  knew  well  enough ;  but  I 
did  not  stir :  her  light  step  came  tripping  down 
the  path, 

"  You  naughty  little  thing  !"  she  said.  "  Why 
don't  you  come  when  you  are  called  1" 

Bessie's  presence  now,  compared  with  the 
thoughts  over  which  1  had  been  brooding, 
seemed  cheerful ;  even  though,  as  usual,  she 
was  somewhat  cross.  The  fact  is,  after  my 
conflict  with,  and  victory  over,  Mrs.  Reed,  I 
was  not  disposed  to  care  much  for  the  nurse- 
maid's transitory  anger ;  and  I  was  disposed  to 
bask  in  her  youthful  hghtness  of  heart.  I  just 
put  my  two  arms  round  her,  and  said,  "  Come, 
Bessie  !  don't  scold." 

The  action  was  more  frank  and  fearless  than 
any  I  was  habituated  to  indulge  in  :  somehow 
it  pleased  her. 

"You  are  a  strange  child.  Miss  Jane,"  she 
said,  as  she  looked  down  at  me  :  "a  little  rov- 


ing solitary  thing  :  and  you  are  going  to  school, 
I  suppose?" 

I  nodded. 

"  And  won't  you  be  sorry  to  leave  poor  Bes- 
sie?" 

"  What  does  Bessie  care  for  me  ?  She  is 
always  scolding  me." 

"Because  you're  such  a  queer,  frightened, 
shy  little  thing.     You  should  be  bolder." 

"  What !  to  get  more  knocks  ?" 

"Nonsense!  But  you  are  rather  put  upon, 
that's  certain.  My  mother  said,  when  she 
came  to  see  me  last  week,  that  she  would  not 
like  a  little  one  of  her  own  to  be  in  your  place. 
Now  come  in,  and  I've  some  good  news  for 
you." 

"I  don't  think  you  have,  Bessie." 

"  Child  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  sor- 
rowful eyes  you  fix  on  me  !  Well  I  but  missis 
and  the  young  ladies  and  Master  John  are  go- 
ing out  to  tea  this  afternoon,  and  you  shall 
have  tea  with  me.  I'll  ask  the  cook  to  bake 
you  a  little  cake,  and  then  you  shall  help  me  to 
look  over  your  drawers  ;  for  I  am  soon  to 
pack  your  trunk.  Missis  intends  you  to  leave 
Gateshead  in  a  day  or  two ,  and  you  shall 
choose  what  toys  you  like  to  take  with  you." 

"  Bessie,  you  must  promise  not  to  scold  me 
any  more  till  I  go." 

"  Well,  I  will :  but  mind  you  are  a  very  good 
girl,  and  don't  be  afraid  of  me.  Don't  start 
when  I  chance  to  speak  rather  sharply  :  it's  so 
provoking." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  be  afraid  of  you 
again,  Bessie,  because  I've  got  used  to  you  ; 
and  I  shall  soon  have  another  set  of  people  to 
dread." 

"  If  you  dread  them  they'll  dislike  you." 

"As  you  do,  Bessie?" 

"  I  don't  dislike  you,  miss  ;  I  believe  I  am 
fonder  of  you  than  all  the  others." 

"  You  don't  show  it." 

"  You  little  sharp  thing  !  you've  got  quite  a. 
new  way  of  talking.  What  makes  you  so  ven- 
turesome and  hardy?" 

"  Why,  I  shall  soon  be  away  from  you,  and 

besides .     I  was  going  to   say  something 

about  what  had  passed  between  me  and  Mrs. 
Reed  ;  but  on  second  thoughts  I  considered  it 
better  to  remain  silent  on  that  head." 

"  And  so  you  are  glad  to  leave  me  ?•" 

"  Not  at  all,  Bessie  ;  indeed,  just  now  I  am 
rather  sorry." 

"  Just  now  !  and  rather  !  How  coolly  my  lit- 
tle lady  says  it  !  I  dare  say  now,  if  I  were  to 
ask  you  for  a  kiss  you  wouldn't  give  it  me : 
you'd  say  you  would  rather  not." 

"  I'll  kiss  you  and  welcome  :  bend  your  head 
down."  Bessie  stooped ;  we  mutually  em- 
braced, and  I  followed  her  into  the  house  quite 
comforted.  That  afternoon  lapsed  in  peace 
and  harmony  ;  and  in  the  evening  Bessie  told 
me  some  of  her  mool  enchaining  stories,  and 
sung  me  some  of  her  sweetest  songs.  Even 
for  me  life  had  its  gleams  of  sunshine. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Five  o'clock  had  hardly  struck  on  the  morn- 
ing of  the  19th  January  when  Bessie  brought- 


ie 


JANK  KYRK 


a  candk:  into  my  cioeirl  iiiKl  found  mo  already 
up  and  nearly  droHKcd.  I  had  rin<n  half  iin 
hour  h<;f(iro  her  »;ntran(;fc,  and  liad  wimlird  my 
face  and  put  «)n  my  clolhcH  hy  iht;  li^lil  <»f  a 
half  moon  jnKl  H«;tirnf;,  wIkiho  ray  ntr»:amfd 
throuf;h  Ihn  narrow  window  ol  tny  lilll<!  r.rib. 
f  was  to  Iravf!  (ialrKhcad  that  day  hy  a  roa<;li 
which  paHRc^d  tliii  lod(!o  haU'h  at  mix  am  Kch 
Hio  wa8  III*!  oidy  porKon  y»!t  riHf-n  ;  hIh;  had 
li((ht«fl  a  fire  in  tin;  rnirHcry,  wlicro  Hho  now 
procficdcd  to  make  my  hri'JiklaHt.  Kcw  child 
rt-n  can  t;at  when  excited  with  the.  IhouKlilH  o( 
a  journny  ;  nor  ooiild  I.  JJohhIo,  having  prens- 
rd  mc  in  vain  to  lakf!  a  few  BpoonfiilB  of  the 
>K>ile(l  milk  and  hread  hhr;  had  prrrpared  for  mc, 
wrapped  iiji  Home  hiHciiilH  in  a  paper  and  put 
them  into  my  ha|{ ;  then  Hhe  helfied  mc;  on  with 
my  peliHHe  anfl  honnet,  and,  wrapping  heraelf  in 
a  Hhawl,  f,he  and  I  left  the  niirHcry.  As  we 
paHHod  fV[r«.  Keed'H  bedroom,  nh(i  Haid,  "  Will 
you  ({(»  in  nnd  hid  miBHlH  (;ood  hy  ?" 

"  No,  KeHHie  Hho  eatne  to  my  crib  last  nifjht 
when  you  were  (joiie  down  to  HU[i[ier,  and  naid 
I  net^d  not  distnili  her  in  the  morning;,  or  my 
eouKiriH  either  ;  and  hhr.  told  in«:  to  remember 
that  Hhe  had  alwayw  been  my  be»t  friend,  and 
to  Bpeak  of  hor  and  bo  Kratoful  to  h(!r  accord- 
ingly." 

"  What  did  you  say,  mi«8?" 

"  Nolbing  1  (;overi;fl  my  (ace  with  the  bed- 
r|oth(!K,  anri  tiirnf;d  from  her  to  the;  wall  " 

"That  wa«  wrttoy,,  Mihh  .lane." 

"  It  waH  (juite  riKlil,  HcHHie  :  your  niinBiB  Uhh 
not  been  my  friend  ;  hIio  haw  been  my  foe." 

"  f)h,  Mihh  .Fan*' '  ilon't  Hay  ho  !" 

"fiood-by  to  (JateKliead '"  cried  I,  aw  we 
|>aKHed  through  the  hall  and  went  out  at  tin- 
front  door. 

'I'hn  moon  wan  not,  and  it  was  very  dark  ; 
HcBHic  carried  a  lantern,  whose  light  glanced 
on  wot  Bte[iH  and  gravel  road  hodden  by  a  re- 
cent thaw,  Kaw  and  chill  wan  the  winter 
morning  ;  my  tr;eth  ehaltered  an  I  haHtened 
down  the  firivr:.  'I'here  was  a  light  in  the 
porter'H  lodge  ;  when  we  r<;ached  it  we  louiiil 
the  porter's  wife  ju»l  kindling  her  fire  :  my 
trunk,  which  had  been  carried  «!own  the  even- 
ing before,  Htood  r;ordcd  at  the  door.  Ft  want- 
ed but  a  few  iiimtileH  of  hix,  and  hhorlly  after 
that  hour  had  Ktrii(;k,  Uic.  di.stant  roll  of  wIiccIh 
announced  (lie  (U)ming  coach  ;  I  went  to  the 
door  and  watched  iIh  larnpH  a()proach  rapidly 
through  the  gloom 

"  Is  Hhe  going  by  herself!"  askfid   the  por 
ter's  wife 

"  Yes." 

"  And  how  far  in  it'" 

"  I''ifty  milcH  " 

"  What  a  long  way  '  I  wonder  Mrs.  Kccd  i.s 
not  afraid  to  trust  her  ho  far  alono." 

Tho  coach  drew  up  ;  there  it  was  at  the  gatcH, 
with  itH  four  horHCH  and  iIh  (op  ladi-n  with  pann 
cngnrH  :  the  guard  and  '^,,,(1111^111  loudly  urged 
haste;  my  trunk  waH  h<iiHted  up,  I  waw  taken 
from  iU'HMie'H  neck,  to  which  I  clung  with 
kisses. 

"  He  sure  and  lakt;  good  cnrn  of  h«r,"  cried 
she  to  the  guard,  m  he  lifted  mi;  into  the  in- 
Hido. 

"Ay.  ay'"  wum  the  aiiHWcr  the  door  waw 
clapped  to,  a  voice  exebiimed  "All  ngiit"  and 
on  wc  drove.     Thus  was  I  Movcrcd  from  Ilos- 


sio  and  (fateshRad  ;  thue  whtrlod  away  to  un- 
known, and,  as  I  then  deeuiod,  ruiuole  and 
iny.slcriouH  regions. 

I  remember  but  little,  of  the  journey  :  I  only 
know  that  the  day  Hcemod  to  me  of  a  prelor- 
nalural  length,  and  that  we  appeared  to  travel 
over  hiindrcdH  of  mile.'*  of  road.  We  passed 
through  several  towuH,  and  in  one — a  very  large 
one  tlie  coach  Htoppr d  ;  the  horses  Were  taken 
out,  and  the  pauHengerH  alighted  to  dine.  I 
waH  carried  into  an  inn,  where  the  guard  want- 
ed me  to  have  nome  dinner  ,  but,  as  1  hud  no 
appetite,  he  left  me  in  an  immense  room  with 
a  fireplace  at  each  end,  a  «:bandelicr  pendent 
from  the  c«Mling,  and  a  litlle  red  gallery  high  up 
agaiiiHt  the  wall  filled  wilh  imiHical  iiiHlrumenm. 
Here  I  walked  about  a  long  time,  feeling  very 
strange,  and  mortally  apprehensive  of  sorno 
one  coming  in  and  kidnapping  me  :  for  I  be- 
lieved in  kidnappers,  their  e.xploits  having  fre- 
<|iienlly  figured  in  HcKSie's  fireside  chronicles 
At  lant  tlie  guard  returned  ;  once  rnorr;  1  was 
htowed  away  in  tin;  coach  ,  my  protector  mount- 
ed hm  own  Hcat,  sounded  his  hollow  horn,  anrl 
away  we  rattled  over  the  "stony  street"  of 
I 

'I'he  afternoon  came  on  wet  and  sornewhat 
miHty  ;  as  it  waned  into  dusk,  I  began  to  fee! 
that  we  were  getting  very  far  indeed  from 
<>alr!Hliead  :  we  ceased  to  pass  thioiigh  towns  ; 
the  country  changed  :  gr(rat  gray  IiiIIh  heaved 
up  round  the  hori'/.on  :  as  twilight  deepened, 
we  desocinded  a  valh^y,  dark  with  wood,  and 
long  after  night  had  overidouded  the  pros|iect,  I 
heard  a  wild  wind  rushing  among  IrcvH 

l.iillcil  by  (hr;  Hound,  I  at  last  drojiped  asleep: 
I  had  not  long  Hliiudtere'd  when  the  Hudden  ees- 
Hation  of  molKMi  awoke  me;  the  coach  door 
waH  thrown  optui,  and  a  perHon  like  a  servant 
was  Htanding  at  it;  1  saw  her  face  and  dross 
by  the  light  of  the  lamps. 

"  Is  there  a  little  girl  called  .lane  Kyre,  hnrc  T" 
kIic  asked  1  answered,  "  Vv.h,"  and  was  then 
lifted  out;  my  iriiiik  was  handed  down,  and 
ihe  coach  in.slantly  drove  away 

1  was  Htifl  with  long  sitting,  and  bewildered 
with  the  noise  and  motion  of  the  coach  galh 
ering  my  faculties,  1  lookr^d  about  me.  Ilain. 
wind,  and  darkncHH  filled  thr;  air  ;  nevcrtholesii, 
1  dimly  dinr-erncd  a  wall  before  mi',  and  n  door 
o[icn  in  It ,  through  thi«  door  I  pasHcd  with  rny 
new  guide  ;  Hhe  Hhiit  and  locked  it  behind  her. 
There  was  now  visibli!  a  house  or  houses — for 
the  building  Kprea('  far  —with  many  windows, 
and  lightH  burning  in  some  ;  we  went  u|i  a 
broad,  pebbly  path,  Mpjanhmg  writ,  and  were  ad- 
mitted at  a  door  .  iheu  the  servant  Ird  mo 
through  a  passage  into  a  room  wilh  a  fire, 
where  hhe  left  me  alone. 

I  stood  and  warmed  my  numbed  fingers  over 
the  hla7/<\  then  I  looked  round  ;  there  was  no 
candit;,  hut  the  uncertain  light  from  the  hearth 
Hhowcd  hy  intervals,  papered  walls,  (tarpet,  our- 
taiiiM,  hhiiiing  mahogany  furniture  ;  it  was  a 
parlor,  not  ho  spa(U(Uis  or  Hplcmlid  as  the  draw- 
ing room  lit  (;ateHherrd,but  (•oin(orliibl(!enouj{h. 
I  was  pu/,7,luig  to  mak«!out  the  siibjoel  of  a  |mc- 
tiire  on  the  wall,  when  the  door  opened,  and  nn 
mdivMliial  carrying  a  light  entered  ;  another 
followed  cloHc  Itchind 

The  fuHl  was  ii  taFI  Fady,  wilh  dark  hair,  dork 
eyes,  and  a  pale  and  large  fureheud  ;  hor  figure 


JANK  KYUl':. 


17 


With  parlly  oiivt'lopiul  in  a  almwl,  hor  cuunto- 
naiicc  wan  |{ruvc,  lici  Ix  aiiun  erect. 

"  'I'lu!  cliilil  is  very  youim  to  be  hoiiI  alone," 
•aid  ttlic,  puttiiig  lier  camlle  down  on  the  lal)li'. 
Slie  ('(inHnlcicd  nic  altrntively  for  a  minute  or 
two,  Mien  lurtlier  added  ; 

".She  had  hclter  i)e  put  U)  lied  soon — mIk; 
looks  tireil.  Arc  yon  tir(!d  '"  ahe  aaked,  jdaeing 
hor  hand  on  iny  shoulder. 

"  A  liille,  nia'aui." 

"And  liiMiury,  too,  no  doubt;  lot  her  have 
8(init>  supper  heftire  she  goes  to  bed.  Miss  Mil- 
ler. Is  this  the  first  I  line  you  have  lidt  your 
parents  to  come  to  scdioel,  my  little  ^irl  !" 

F  explameil  to  lici  that  1  had  no  |)arcntM. 
Sho  incjuired  how  long  they  had  been  dead  ; 
then,  how  (dd  I  was,  what  was  my  name, 
whether  1  could  rend,  write,  and  sew  a  little  ; 
then  she  touched  my  (^heck  ^'cnlly  with  Inir  fore 
linj^er, and  .saying, ".shrliopi'd  I  .simnid  Iteagood 
child,"  dismissed  nu:  along  with  Misn  Milli-r. 

The  lady  1  had  Iclt  miglil  he  aliont  Iwenly- 
nine  ;  the  oni!  who  wniii  with  me  app(^ar<!d 
Bomo  years  yoiing(;r;  tho  first  imprcs.sed  me 
by  her  voice,  look,  and  air.  Mias  Milhir  was 
more  ordinary  ;  rmldy  in  com|ilexjoii,  though 
ot  a  (;arcwnrn  countenance  ;  hurried  m  gail 
and  action,  like  onr  who  had  always  a  miiilj 
plicity  ol  tasks  on  hand  ;  tsho  looked,  iieh  i  d, 
what  I  afterward  found  she  really  was,  an 
umler-teaehcr.  Led  by  her,  1  paM.y(!d  liom 
coiniiartmiuit  tu  compartment,  from  pa.ssag('  to 
pa^tsage,  of  a  lar'^c  and  iricgnliir  liiiildiiig  ,  till, 
(Miierging  from  the  total  and  .somewhat  dreaiy 
Hilenei'  iM.'rvading  that  portion  of  tiic  house  we 
had  traversed,  we  came  upon  the  hum  of  many 
voices,  and  presently  entered  a  wide,  huig  nioiii, 
with  great  d(!al  tables,  two  at  each  (Mid,  on  each 
of  vvhi(di  burned  a  pair  of  candles,  and,  seated 
tdl  round  on  benches,  a  congrt.gation  <d'  giils 
of  every  age  from  nine  or  ten  to  (wenly.  Neni 
by  the  dim  light  oi  tln^  dips,  tin  ir  number  lu 
uie  appealed  couiilh^ss,  though  noi.  in  icalily 
exceeding  eighty  ;  liiey  wer*!  unirormiy  dressed 
in  brown  sliilf  frixdis  of  <|uaiiil  fashion,  and 
long  holland  pinaforti.s  It  was  the  hour  of 
sillily  ;  they  were  eiig.igi'd  in  conning  over  tlieii 
to  mm  row's  task,  and  the  hum  I  bad  lie.iid  was 
the  uoiiibined  result  of  I  heir  whispered  rcjic 
titions 

Miss  Miller  signed  to  mo  to  sit  on  a  bench 
near  the  door,  then  walking  u|)  to  the  top  (d  Ibe 
long  room,  she  cried  out : 

"  Monitora,  (Millcct  the  los«oti-bo(d>s  and  jiiit 
them  away  !" 

four  tall  girls  ami^e  from  ddfcrent  (aides,  and 
going  round,  gatlieml  the  boi  i,  i  and  ieiiiovi.'d 
thuui.  Miss  Miller  ugniu  gavu  the  wmd  of 
(^onimanil  : 

"  Momiora,  fetch  the  sii|iper  trays  !  ' 

The  tall  girls  went  out  and  returned  jiresent 
«y,  each  bi-aiing  a  tray,  wilb  portions  of  mouic- 
tliiiig,  1  knew  not  \Nhat,  arranged  tbcrron,  and 
a  pilidier  of  wiiter  and  mug  in  (be  iniddli)  ol 
each  Iruy.  The  portions  were  handed  kiiiiiiI  ; 
those  who  liked  took  a  draught  ol  Ibe  walii, 
the  mug  being  common  to  all.  When  it  (^mie 
to  my  turn,  1  drank,  (or  I  was  thirsty,  but  did 
not  touch  till!  food,  excit(!mont  anil  latimie  rm- 
deriiig  me  incapable  of  i^ating  ;  1  now  .saw, 
nowever,  that  it  was  a  thin  oaten  cake,  shared 
Into  fragnioitts. 

U 


The  meal  over,  prayers  were  read  by  Mi.<ja 
Miller,  and  the  classes  filed  off,  two  and  two,  up 
stairs.  Overpowered  by  this  lime  with  weati- 
iiesa,  I  s(!arc(dy  noticed  what  sort  of  u  place 
the  bedroom  was,  except  that,  like  the  sidiool- 
loom,  I  .^aw  it  was  very  long.  To-mght  1  was 
lo  be  Misa  Miller's  bed  Allow  ;  siic  helped  me 
to  llnd^e[^a.  When  laid  ilowii,  1  glanced  at  the 
long  row.')  of  beds,  each  of  wliieh  was  quickly 
Idled  with  two  occupanta  ;  m  ton  minutes  the 
single  lig'it  was  extinguished  ;  amid  silence 
and  complete  darkness,  I  fell  asleep. 

The  night  passed  rapidly  ,  I  was  too  tired 
even  to  dream  ;  1  only  once  awoke  to  bear  the 
wind  rave  in  furious  giisl.s,  ami  llin  ram  fall  m 
torrents,  and  lo  he  sensible  that  Mi.vs  Miller  bad 
takiMi  her  place  by  my  side.  When  1  ag.iin  un- 
closed my  eyes,  a  loud  bell  was  ringing,  tho  gu  l.s 
were  up  and  dressing,  day  had  not  yel  begun 
to  davMi,  and  a  rushlight  or  two  biirni^d  in  the 
loom.  I,  too,  rose  relnclantly  ;  it  was  liiltei 
I'old,  and  1  dressed  as  well  as  I  could  for  shiv- 
ering, and  washed,  v\  hen  there  was  a  basin  at 
li'ieily,  which  did  nut  occur  soon,  aa  there  wab 
but  one  basin  to  aix  girls,  on  the  stands  down 
the  middle  of  tlie  room.  Again  the  liell  rung; 
all  formed  in  file,  two  and  two,  and  in  that  or- 
der descended  the  stairs  and  entered  the  cold 
and  dimly-lighted  scboid-room ;  here  prayers 
were  r»!ad  by  Miss  Millor  ;  afterward  bIio called 
out : 

"  I'orin  claasoB  !" 

A  gieat  tumult  sueiiecded  loi  .somi-  mimiti.a, 
diiiiiig  wliiidi  Miss  Miller  repealiidly  exelaiinetJ, 
"  Silence  I"  and  "  Order  !"  When  it  subsided, 
1  saw  them  all  drawn  ii|i  in  four  .seiiiieiruleb, 
before  four  chairs,  placed  at  the  lour  tables  ;  all 
held  boilks  in  their  hands,  and  a  great  book,  like 
a  liible,  lay  on  each  table,  before  the  vacant  sent. 
A  p.'Uise  of  siuiie  seconds  siKu-eeded,  filled  up 
by  the  low,  vague  hum  of  numbers  ;  Miss  Mil- 
ler walked  from  class  to  class,  hushing  this  in^ 
delinite  sound. 

A  distant  bell  tinkled.  Immedialely  throe 
ladies  entered  the  room)  each  walked  to  a  la 
hie  and  took  hor  seat;  Miss  Miller  assuming 
Ibe  fourth  vacant  chair,  which  was  that  near- 
e.st  Ibe  dooi,  and  around  wlncli  the  .smalli^st  of 
the  ehildren  were  assembled  ,  to  this  inferior 
cla.ss   1   v\as  called,  and  jilaced    at  the  bottoin 

of  It. 

HusiiKiss  now  beg.in,  The  day's  e<dlect  wntt 
re|ieated,  then  (M^rtain  texts  of  .Scripture  were 
saiil,  and  to  thi'se  Miicceeded  a  protracted  rnad- 
111,'.;  ol  (diaplers  in  the  Itilde,  which  lasted  an 
liMiir.  liy  the  tune  that  exerciae  was  termina- 
h  d,  d.iy  had  lidly  d.iwiied.  Tin'  indetatigahle 
lull  now  sounded  lor  the  loin  lb  lime;  the 
classes  were  marshaled,  and  maicbed  mlo  an- 
other room  to  hreakla.t.  Ilow  glad  1  was  to 
belndd  a  prospect  of  getting  sobiclbiiig  to  cat ! 
I  was  now  nearly  sick  Inuii  inaiiilion,  having 
cilu'ii  so  little  (he  day  before. 

'Ibe  refectory  was  a  great,  lo>v-coilod,  ghioinj 
room  ;  on  two  long  tables  smoked  basins  of 
.something  hot,  wliieb,  however,  lo  my  dismay, 
Hriit  forth  an  odor  tar  liiuii  inviting.  I  saw  A 
universal  inanileatatioii  of  discontunl  when  tho 
Inines of  the  repast  mot  the  nostrils  ol  Uioho 
destined  lo  swallow  it.  rrotn  the  van  of  the 
pioeession,  the  lall  girls  of  the  first  class,  rose 
the  whispered  words  : 


18 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Disgusting  !  The  porridge  is  burned 
again !" 

"Silence!"  ejaculated  a  voice — not  that  of 
Miss  Miller,  but  of  one  of  the  upper  teachers, 
a  little  and  dark  personage,  smartly  dressed, 
but  of  somewhat  morose  aspect,  who  installed 
herself  at  the  top  of  one  table,  while  a  more 
buxom  lady  presided  at  the  other.  I  looked  in 
vain  for  her  I  had  first  seen  the  night  before — 
she  was  not  visible.  Miss  Miller  occupied  the 
foot  of  the  table,  where  I  sat,  and  a  strange, 
foreign-looking,  elderly  lady,  the  French  teach- 
er^  as  I  afterward  found,  took  the  correspond- 
ing seat  at  the  other  board.  A  long  grace  was 
said,  and  a  hymn  sung  ;  then  a  servant  brought 
in  some  tea  for  the  teachers,  and  the  meal  be- 
gan. 

Ravenous,  and  now  very  faint,  I  devoured  a 
spoonful  or  two  of  my  portion  without  think- 
ing of  its  taste;  but  the  first  edge  of  hunger 
blunted,  I  perceived  I  had  got  in  hand  a  nau- 
seous mess.  Burned  porridge  is  almost  as  bad 
as  rotten  potatoes  ;  famine  itself  soon  sickens 
over  it.  The  spoons  were  moved  slowly.  I 
saw  each  girl  taste  her  food  and  try  to  swallow 
it,  but  in  most  cases  the  effort  was  soon  relin- 
quished. Breakfast  was  over  and  none  had 
breakfasted.  Thanks  being  returned  for  what 
we  had  not  got,  and  a  second  hymn  chanted, 
the  refectory  was  evacuated  for  the  school- 
room. I  was  one  of  the  last  to  go  out ;  and,  in 
passing  the  tables,  I  saw  one  teacher  take  a  ba- 
sin of  the  porridge  and  taste  it.  She  looked  at 
the  others ;  all  their  countenances  expressed 
displeasure,  and  one  of  them,  the  stout  one, 
whispered  : 

"  Abominable  stuff!  How  shameful !" 
A  quarter  of  an  hour  passed  before  lessons 
again  begun,  during  which  the  school-room  was 
in  a  glorious  tumult.  For  that  space  of  time 
it  seemed  to  be  permitted  to  talk  loud  and  more 
freely,  and  they  used  their  privilege.  The 
whole  conversation  ran  on  the  breakfast,  which 
one  and  all  abused  roundly.  Poor  things  !  it 
was  the  sole  consolation  they  had.  Miss  Miller 
was  now  the  only  teacher  in  the  room  :  a  group 
of  great  girls  standing  about  her,  spoke  with 
serious  and  sullen  gestures.  I  heard  the  name 
of  Mr.  Brocklehurst  pronounced  by  some  lips  ; 
at  which  Miss  Miller  shook  her  head  disap- 
provingly ;  but  she  made  no  great  effort  to 
check  the  general  wrath  ;  doubtless  she  shared 
in  it. 

A  clock  in  the  school-room  struck  nine  ;  Miss 
Miller  left  her  circle,  and,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  cried  : 

"  Silence  !  To  your  seats !" 
Discipline  prevailed  :  in  five  minutes  the  con- 
fused throng  was  resolved  into  order,  and  com- 
parative silence  quelled  the  Babel  clamor  of 
tongues.  The  upper  teachers  now  punctually 
resumed  their  posts  ;  but  still,  all  seemed  to 
wait.  Ranged  on  benches  down  the  sides  of 
the  room,  the  eighty  girls  sat  motionless  and 
erect ;  a  quaint  assemlilage  they  appeared,  all 
•with  plain  locks  combed  from  their  faces,  not 
a  curl  visible ;  in  brown  dresses,  made  high 
and  surrounded  by  a  narrow  tucker  about  the 
throat,  with  little  pockets  of  hoUand  (shaped 
something  like  a  Highlander's  purse)  tied  in 
front  of  their  frocks  and  destined  to  serve  the 
purpose  of  a  work-bag  ;  all,  loo,  wearing  wool- 


en stockings  and  country-made  shoes  fastened 
with  brass  buckles.  Above  twenty  of  these 
clad  in  this  costume  were  full-grown  girls,  or, 
rather,  young  women  :  it  suited  them  ill,  and 
gave  an  air  of  oddity  even  to  the  prettiest. 

I  was  still  looking  at  them,  and  also  at  inter- 
vals examining  the  teachers — none  of  whom 
precisely  pleased  me  ;  for  the  stout  one  was  a 
little  coarse,  the  dark  one  not  a  little  fierce,  the 
foreigner  harsh  and  grotesque,  and  Miss  Miller, 
poor  thing  !  looked  purple,  weather-beaten,  and 
overworked — when,  as  my  eye  wandered  from 
face  to  face,  the  whole  school  rose  simultane- 
ously, as  if  moved  by  a  common  spring. 

What  was  the  matter?  I  had  heard  no  or- 
der given  ;  I  was  puzzled.  Ere  I  had  gathered 
my  wits,  the  classes  were  again  seated  ;  but 
as  all  eyes  were  now  turned  to  one  point,  mine 
followed  the  general  direction,  and  encountered 
the  personage  who  had  received  me  last  night. 
She  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  long  room,  on 
the  hearth  ;  for  there  was  a  fire  at  each  end  : 
she  surveyed  the  two  rows  of  girls  silently  and 
gravely.  Miss  Miller  approaching,  seemed  to 
ask  her  a  question,  and,  having  received  her 
answer,  went  back  to  her  place,  and  said  aloud, 

"  Monitor  of  the  first  class,  fetch  the  globes  I" 

While  the  direction  was  being  executed,  the 
lady  consulted  moved  slowly  np  the  room.  I 
suppose  I  have  a  considerable  organ  of  venera- 
tion, for  I  retain  yet  the  sense  of  admiring  awe 
with  which  my  eyes  tracked  her  steps.  Seen 
now,  in  broad  daylight,  she  looked  tall,  fair, 
and  shapely ;  brown  eyes,  with  a  benignant 
light  in  their  irids,  and  a  fine  penciling  of 
long  lashes  round,  relieved  the  whiteness  of 
her  large  front ;  on  each  of  her  temples  her 
hair,  of  a  very  dark  brown,  was  clustered  in 
round  curls,  according  to  the  fashion  of  those 
times,  when  neither  smooth  bands  nor  long 
ringlets  were  in  vogue  ;  her  dress,  also  in  the 
mode  of  the  day,  was  of  purple  cloth,  relieved 
by  a  sort  of  Spanish  trimming  of  black  velvet  ; 
a  gold  watch  (watches  were  not  so  common 
then  as  now)  shone  at  her  girdle.  Let  the 
reader  add,  to  complete  the  picture,  refined 
features  ;  a  complexion  if  pale,  clear  ;  and  a 
stately  air  and  carriage,  and  he  will  have,  at 
least  as  clearly  as  words  can  give  it,  a  correct 
idea  of  the  exterior  of  Miss  Temple — Maria 
Temple,  as  I  afterward  saw  the  name  written 
in  a  prayer-book  intrusted  to  me  to  carry  to 
church. 

The  superintendent  of  Lowood  (for  such  was 
this  lady)  having  taken  her  seat  before  a  pair 
of  globes  placed  on  one  of  the  tables,  summon- 
«»d  the  first  class  round  her,  and  commenced 
giving  a  lesson  in  geography;  the  lower  classes 
were  called  by  the  teachers  ;  repetitions  in  his- 
tory, grammar,  &c.,  went  on  for  an  hour; 
writing  and  arithm  vie  succeeded,  and  music 
lessons  were  given  by  Miss  Temple  to  some 
of  the  elder  girls.  T'.ie  duration  of  each  les- 
son was  measured  by  the  clock,  which  at  last 
struck  twelve.     The  superintendent  rose  : 

"  I  have  a  word  to  address  to  the  pupils," 
said  she. 

The  tumult  of  cessation  from  lessons  was 
already  breaking  forth,  but  it  sunk  at  her  voice. 
She  went  on  : 

"You  had  this  morning  a  breakfast  which 
you  could  not  eat ;  you  must  be  hungry :  I 


JANE  EYRE. 


19 


have  ordered  that  a  lunch  of  bread  and  cheese 
shall  be  served  to  all." 

The  teachers  looked  at  her  with  a  sort  of 
surprise. 

"  It  is  to  be  done  on  my  responsibility,"  she 
added,  in  an  explanatory  tone  to  them,  and 
immediately  afterward  left  the  room. 

The  bread  and  cheese  was  presently  brought 
in  and  distributed,  to  the  high  delight  and  re- 
freshment of  the  whole  school.  The  order 
was  now  given,  "To  the  garden!"  Each  put 
on  a  coarse  straw  bonnet,  with  strings  of  color- 
ed calico,  and  a  cloak  of  gray  frieze.  I  was- 
similarly  equipped,  and,  following  the  stream, 
I  made  my  way  into  the  open  air. 

The  garden  was  a  wide  inclosure,  surround- 
ed with  walls  so  high  as  to  exclude  every 
glimpse  of  prospect;  a  covered  verandah  ran 
down  on  one  side,  and  broad  walks  bordered 
a  middle  space  divided  into  scores  of  little 
beds  ;  these  beds  were  assigned  as  gardens  for 
the  pupils  to  cultivate,  and  each  bed  had  an 
owner.  When  full  of  flowers,  they  would, 
doubtless,  look  pretty  ;  but  now,  at  the  latter 
end  of  January,  all  was  wintry  bl.ght  and 
brown  decay.  I  shuddered  as  I  stood  and 
looked  around  me  :  it  was  an  inclement  day 
for  out-door  exercise — not  positively  rainy, 
but  darkened  by  a  drizzling,  yellow  fog ;  all 
underfoot  was  still  soaking  wet  with  the  floods 
of  yesterday.  The  stronger  among  the  girls 
ran  about  and  engaged  in  active  games,  but 
sundry  pale  and  thin  ones  herded  together  for 
shelter  and  warmth  in  the  verandah ;  and  among 
these,  as  the  dense  mist  penetrated  to  their 
shivering  frames,  I  heard  frequently  the  sound 
of  a  hollow  cough. 

As  yet  T  had  spoken  to  no  one,  nor  did  any 
body  seem  to  take  notice  of  me  ;  I  stood  lone- 
ly enough  :  but  to  that  feeling  of  isolation  I  was 
accustomed,  it  did  not  oppress  me  much.  I 
leaned  against  a  pillar  of  the  verandah,  drew 
my  gray  mantle  close  about  me,  and  trying  to 
forget  the  cold  which  nipped  me  without,  and 
the  unsatisfied  hunger  which  gnawed  me  with- 
in, delivered  myself  up  to  the  employment  of 
watching  and  thinking.  My  reflections  were 
too  undefined  and  fragmentary  to  merit  record; 
I  hardly  yet  knew  where  I  was.  Gateshead 
and  my  past  life  seemed  floated  away  to  an 
immeasurable  distance  ;  the  present  was  vague 
and  strange,  and  of  the  future,  I  could  form  no 
conjecture.  I  looked  around  the  convent-like 
garden,  and  then,  up  at  the  house,  a  large 
building,  half  of  which  seemed  gray  and  old, 
the  other  half  quite  new.  The  new  part,  con- 
taining the  school-room  and  dormitory  was 
lighted  by  muUioned  and  latticed  windows 
which  gave  it  a  church-like  aspect ;  a  stone 
tablet  over  the  door  bore  this  inscription  : 

"  Lowood    Institution.      This    portion  was 

rebuilt  a.d.  ,  by  Naomi   Brocklehurst,  of 

Brocklehurst  Hall,  in  this  county."  '  Let  your 
light  'so  shine  before  men  that  they  may  see" 
your  good  works,  and  glorify  your  Father  which 
is  in  heaven.' — St.  Matt.,  v.,  16." 

I  read  these  words  over  and  over  again  :  I 
felt  that  an  explanation  belonged  to  them,  and 
was  unable  fully  to  penetrate  their  import.  I 
was  still  pondering  the  signification  of  "Insti- 
tution," and  endeavoring  to  make  out  a  con- 
nection between  the  first  words  and  the  verse 


of  Scripture,  when  the  sound  of  a  cough,  close 
behmd  me,  made  me  turn  my  head.  I  saw  a  girl 
sitting  on  a  stone  bench  near ;  she  was  bent 
over  a  book,  on  the  perusal  of  which  she  seem- 
ed intent ;  from  where  I  stood  I  could  see  the 
title — it  was  "  Rasselas,"  a  name  that  struck 
me  as  strange,  and  consequently  attractive.  In 
turning  a  leaf  she  happened  to  Jock  up,  and  I 
said  to  her  directly, 

"  Is  your  book  interesting  1"  I  had  already 
formed  the  intention  of  askmg  her  to  lend  it  to 
me  some  day. 

"  I  like  it,"  she  answered,  after  a  pause  of  a 
second  or  two,  during  which  she  examined  me. 

"  What  is  it  about  1"  I  continued.  I  hardly 
know  where  I  found  the  hardihood  thus  to  open 
a  conversation  with  a  stranger  ;  the  step  was 
contrary  to  my  nature  and  habits :  but  I  think 
her  occupation  touched  a  chord  of  sympathy 
somewhere  ;  for  I,  too,  liked  reading,  though  of 
a  frivolous  and  childish  kind  ;  I  could  not 
digest  or  comprehend  the  serious  or  substantial. 

"  You  may  look  at  it,"  replied  the  girl,  offer- 
ing ine  the  book. 

I  did  so  ;  a  brief  examination  convinced  me 
that  the  contents  were  less  taking  than  the 
title:  "Rasselas"  looked  dull  to  my  trifling 
taste ;  I  saw  nothing  about  fairies,  nothing 
about  genii ;  no  bright  variety  seemed  spread 
over  the  closely-printed  pages.  I  returned  it 
to  her ;  she  received  it  quietly,  and  without 
saying  any  thing,  she  was  about  to  relapse 
into  her  former  studious  mood  :  again  I  ven- 
tured to  disturb  her — 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  the  writing  on  that 
stone  over  the  door  means  1  What  is  Lo- 
wood Institution  V 

"  This  house  where  you  are  come  to  live." 

"  And  why  do  they  call  it  Institution  1  Is  it 
in  any  way  different  from  other  schools  V 

"  It  is  partly  a  charity-school  :  you  and  I, 
and  all  the  rest  of  us  are  charity-children.  I 
suppose  you  are  an  orphan :  are  not  either 
your  father  or  your  mother  dead  1" 

"  Both  died  before  I  can  remember." 

"  Well,  all  the  girls  here  have  lost  either  one 
or  both  parents,  and  this  is  called  an  insti- 
tution for  educating  orphans." 

"  Do  we  pay  no  money  !  Do  they  keep  us 
for  nothing?' 

"  We  pay,  or  our  friends  pay,  fifteen  pounds 
a-year  for  each." 

"  Then  why  do  they  call  us  charity-children  V 

"Because  fifteen  pounds  is  not  enough  for 
board  and  teaching,  and  the  deficiency  is  sup- 
plied by  subscription." 

"Who  subscribes  1" 

"  Different  benevolent-minded  ladies  and 
gentlemen  in  this  neighborhood  and  in  Lon- 
don !" 

"  Who  was  Naomi  Brocklehurst  ?" 

"The  lady  who  built  the  new  part  of  this 
house,  as  that  tablet  records,  and  whose  soa 
overlooks  and  directs  every  thing  here." 

"WhyV 

"  Because  he  is  treasurer  and  manager  of 
the  establishment." 

"  Then  this  house  does  not  belong  to  that 
tall  lady  who  wears  a  watch,  and  who  said  we 
were  to  have  some  bread  and  cheese  1" 

"  To  Miss  Temple  1  Oh  no  !  I  wish  it  did : 
she  has  to  ansv.er  to  Mr.  Brocklehurst  for  all 


20 


JANE  EYRE. 


she  does.     Mr.  Brocklehurst  buys  all  'our  food 
and  all  our  clothes." 

"  Does  he  live  here?" 

».  No — two  miles  off,  at  a  large  hall." 

"  Is  he  a  good  man?' 

'•  He  is  a  clergyman,  and  is  said  to  do  a  great 
deal  of  good." 

"Did  you  saj  that  tall  lady  was  called  Miss 
Temple  1" 

"Yes." 

"  And  what  are  the  other  teachers  called  V 

"  The  one  with  red  cheeks  is  called  Miss 
Smith  ;  she  attends  to  the  work,  and  cuts  out — 
for  we  make  our  own  clothes,  our  frocks,  and 
pelisses,  and  every  thing  ;  the  little  one  with 
black  hair  is  Miss  Scatcherd  :  she  teaches  his- 
tory and  grammar,  and  hears  the  second  class 
repetitions  ;  and  the  one  who  wears  a  shawl, 
and  has  a  pocket-handkerchief  tied  to  her  side 
with  a  yellow  ribbon,  is  Madame  Pierrot ;  she 
comes  from  Lisle,  in  France,  and  teaches 
French." 

♦'  Do  you  like  the  teachers  V 

"  Well  enough."  , 

"Do  you  like  the  little  black  one,  and  the 

Madame  1 — I  can  not' pronounce   her 

name  as  you  do." 

"  Miss  Scatcherd  is  hasty — you  must  take 
care  not  to  offend  her ;  Madame  Pierrot  is  not 
a  bad  sort  of  person." 

"  But  Miss  Temple  is  the  best — isn't  she  1" 

"  Miss  Temple  is  very  good,  and  very  clever : 
she  is  above  the  rest,  because  she  knows  far 
more  than  they  do." 

"  Have  you  been  long  here  1" 

"  Two  years." 

"  Are  you  an  orphan  1" 

"  My  mother  is  dead." 

"  Are  you  happy  hereV 

"  You  ask  rather  too  many  questions.  I 
have  given  you  answers  enough  for  the  pres- 
ent ;  now  I  want  to  read." 

But  at  that  moment  the  summons  sounded 
for  dinner  :  all  re-entered  tho  house.  The  odor 
which  now  filled  the  refectory  was  scarcely 
more  appetizing  than  that  wliich  had  regaled 
our  nostrils  at  breakfast :  the  dinner  was 
served  in  two  huge  tin-plated  vessels,  whence 
rose  a  strong  steam  redolent  of  rancid  fat, 
I  found  the  mess  to  consist  of  indifferent 
potatoes  and  strange  shreds  of  rusty  meat, 
mixed  and  cooked  together.  Of  this  prepara- 
tion a  tolerably  abundant  plateful  was  appor- 
tioned to  each  pupil.  I  ate  what  I  could,  and 
wondered  within  myself  whether  every  day's 
fare  would  bo  like  this. 

After  dinner  we  immediately  adjourned  to 
the  school-room  :  lessons  recommenced,  and 
were  continued  till  five  o'clock. 

The  only  marked  event  of  the  afternoon 
was,  that  I  saw  the  girl  with  whom  I  had 
conversed  in  the  verandah  dismissed  in  dis- 
grace, by  Miss  Scatcherd,  from  a  history  class, 
and  sent  to  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  large 
school-room.  The  punishment  seemed  to  me 
in  a  high  degree  ignominious,  especially  for  so 
great  a  girl — she  looked  thirteen  or  upward. 
I  expected  she  would  show  signs  of  great  dis- 
tress and  .shame  ;  but,  to  my  surprise,  she 
neither  wept  nor  blushed  :  composed,  though 
grave,  she  stood,  the  central  mark  of  all  eyes. 
"  How  can  she  bear  it  so  quietly— so  firmly  1" 


I  asked  of  myself.  "  Were  I  in  her  place,  it 
seems  to  me  I  should  wish  the  earth  to  open 
and  swallow  me  up.  She  looks  as  if  she  were 
thinking  of  something  beyond  her  punishment — 
beyond  her  situation  :  of  something  not  round 
her  nor  before  her.  I  have  heard  of  day- 
dreams— is  she  in  a  day-dream  now  1  Her 
eyes  are  fixed  on  the  floor,  but  I  am  sure  they 
do  not  see  it — her  sight  seems  turned  in,  gone 
down  into  her  heart:  she  is  looking  at  what 
she  can  remember,  I  believe  ;  not  at  what  is 
really  present.  I  wonder  what  sort  of  a  girl  she 
is — whether  good  or  naughty." 

Soon  after  five  p.m.  we  had  another  meal, 
consisting  of  a  small  mug  of  coffee  and  half  a 
slice  of  brown  bread.  I  devoured  my  bread 
and  drank  my  coffee  with  relish  ;  but  I  should 
have  been  glad  of  as  much  more — I  was  still 
hungry.  Half  an  hour's  recreation  succeeded, 
then  study  ;  then  the  glass  of  water  and  the 
piece  of  oat-cake,  prayers,  and  bed.  Such  was 
my  first  day  at  Lowood. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


The  next  day  commenced  as  before,  getting 
up  and  dressing  by  rushlight ;  but  this  morning 
we  were  obhged  to  dispense  with  the  cere- 
mony of  washing:  the  water  in  the  pitchers 
was  frozen.  A  change  had  taken  place  in  the 
weather  the  preceding  evening,  and  a  keen 
northeast  wind,  whistling  through  the  crevices 
of  our  bedrootn  windows  all  night  long,  had 
made  us  shiver  in  our  beds,  and  turned  the 
contents  of  the  ewers  to  ice. 

Before  the  long  hour  and  a  half  of  prayers 
and  bible  reading  was  over,  I  felt  ready  to 
perish  with  cold.  Breakfast-time  came  at  last, 
and  this  morning  the  porridge  was  not  burned  ; 
the  quality  was  eatable,  the  quantity  small  : 
how  small  my  portion  seemed  !  I  wished  it  had 
been  doubled. 

In  the  course  of  the  day  I  was  enrolled  a 
member  of  the  fourth  class,  and  regular  tasks 
and  occupations  were  assigned  me  :  hitherto 
I  had  only  been  a  spectator  of  the  proceedings 
at  Lowood — I  was  now  to  become  an  actor 
therein.  At  first,  being  little  accustomed  to 
learn  by  heart,  the  lessons  appeared  to  me 
both  long  and  difficult  :  the  frequent  change 
from  task  to  task,  too,  bewildered  me ;  and  I 
was  glad,  when,  about  three  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon.  Miss  Smith  put  into  my  hands  a 
border  of  muslin,  two  yards  long,  together  with 
needle,  thimble,  &c.,  and  sent  me  to  sit  in  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  school-room,  with  directions 
to  hem  the  same.  At  that  hour  most  of  the 
others  were  sewing  likewise  ;  but  one  class 
still  stood  round  Miss  Scatcherd's  chair  read- 
ing, and  as  all  was  quiet,  the  subject  of  their 
lessons  could  be  heard,  together  with  the  man- 
ner in  which  each  girl  acquitted  herself,  and 
the  animadversions  or  commendations  of  Miss 
Scatcherd  on  the  performance.  It  was  English 
history  :  among  the  readers,  I  observed  my 
acquaintance  of  the  verandah  ;  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  lesson,  her  place  had  been 
at  the  top  of  the  class,  but  for  some  error  of 
pronunciation  or  some  inattention  to  stops,  she 
was  suddenly  sent  to  the  very  bottom.    Evea 


JANE  EYRE. 


21 


in  that  obscure  position,  Miss  Scatcherd  con- 
tinued to  make  her  an  object  of  constant 
notice  ;  she  was  continually  addressing  to  her 
such  phrases  as  the  following  ; — 

"  Burns  (such  it  seenns  was  her  name  ;  the 
girls  here,  were  all  called  by  their  surnames,  as 
boys  are  elsewhere),  Burns,  you  are  standing 
on  the  side  of  your  shoe,  turn  your  toes  out 
immediately."  "  Burns,  you  poke  your  chin 
most  unpleasantly,  draw  it  in."  "  Burns,  I 
insist  on  your  holding  your  head  up  ;  I  will  not 
have  you  before  me  in  that  attitude,"  &c.,  &c. 

A  chapter  having  been  read  through  twice, 
the  books  were  closed  and  the  girls  examined. 
The  lesson  had  comprised  part  of  the  reign  of 
Charles  I.,  and  there  were  sundry  questions 
about  tunnage  and  poundage,  and  ship-money, 
which  most  of  them  appeared  unable  to  answer  ; 
still,  every  little  difficulty  was  solved  instantly 
when  it  reached  Burns :  her  memory  seemed 
to  have  retained  the  substance  of  the  whole  les- 
son, and  she  was  ready  with  answers  on  every 
point.  I  kept  expecting  that  Miss  Scatcherd 
would  praise  her  attention  ;  but,  instead  of  that, 
she  suddenly  cried  out : 

"You  dirty,  disagreeable  girl !  you  have  never 
cleaned  your  nails  this  morning  !" 

Burns  made  no  answer  :  I  wondered  at  her 
silence. 

"Why,"  thought  I,  "does  she  not  explain 
that  she  could  neither  clean  her  nails  nor  wash 
her  face,  as  the  water  was  frozen  T' 

My  attention  was  now  called  ofT  by  Miss 
Smith,  desiring  me  to  hold  a  skein  of  thread  : 
while  she  was  winding  it,  she  talked  to  me 
from  time  to  time,  asking  whether  I  had  ever 
been  at  school  before,  whether  I  could  mark, 
stitch,  knit,  &c.  ;  till  she  dismissed  me,  I  could 
not  pursue  my  observations  on  Miss  Scatcherd's 
movements.  When  I  returned  to  my  seat,  that 
lady  was  just  delivering  an  order,  of  which  I 
did  not  catch  the  import ;  but  Burns  imme- 
diately left  the  class,  and,  going  into  the  small 
inner  room  where  the  books  were  kept,  re- 
turned in  half  a  minute,  carrying  in  her  hand 
a  bundle  of  twigs  tied  together  at  one  end. 
This  ominous  tool  she  presented  to  Miss  Scatch- 
erd with  a  respectful  courtesy  ;  then  she  quietly, 
and  without  being  told,  unloosed  her  pinafore, 
and  the  teacher  instantly  and  sharply  inflicted 
on  her  neck  a  dozen  strokes  with  the  hunch  of 
twigs.  Not  a  tear  rose  to  Burns's  eye  ;  and, 
while  I  paused  from  my  sewing,  because  my 
fingers  quivered  at  this  spectacle  with  a  senti- 
ment of  unavailing  and  impotent  anger,  not  a 
feature  of  her  pensive  face  altered  its  ordinary 
expression. 

"  Hardened  girl !"  exclaimed  Miss  Scatcherd, 
''  nothing  can  correct  you  of  your  slatternly 
habits  :  carry  the  rod  away." 

Burns  obeyed :  I  looked  at  her  narrowly  as 
she  emerged  from  the  book-closet ;  she  was 
just  putting  back  her  handkerchief  into  her 
pocket,  and  the  trace  of  a  tear  glistened  on  her 
thin  cheek. 

The  play-hour  in  the  evening  I  thought  the 
pleasantest  fraction  of  the  day  at  Lowood  :  the 
bit  of  bread,  the  draught  of  coffee  swallowed  at 
five  o'clock  had  revived  vitality,  if  it  had  not 
satisfied  hunger ;  the  long  restraint  of  the  day 
was  slackened  ;  the  school-room  felt  warmer 
than  in  the  morning  :  its  fires  being  allowed  to 


burn  a  little  more  brightly  to  supply,  in  some 
measure,  the  place  of  candles,  not  yet  intro- 
duced ;  the  ruddy  gloaming,  the  licensed  uproar, 
the  confusion  of  many  voices  gave  one  a  wel- 
come sense  of  liberty. 

On  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  I  had 
seen  Miss  Scatcherd  flog  her  pupil  Burns,  I 
wandered  as  usual  among  the  forms  and  tables 
and  laughing  groups  without  a  companion,  yet 
not  feeling  lonely  :  when  I  passed  the  windows, 
I  now  and  then  lifted  a  blind  and  looked  out ;  it 
snowed  fast,  a  drift  was  already  forming  against 
the  lower  panes  ;  putting  my  ear  close  to  the 
window,  I  could  distinguish,  from  the  gleeful 
tumult  within,  the  disconsolate  moan  of  the 
wind  outside. 

Probably,  if  I  had  lately  left  a  good  home  and 
kind  parents,  this  would  have  been  the  hour 
when  I  should  most  keenly  have  regretted  the 
separation  :  that  wind  would  then  have  sad- 
dened my  heart ;  this  obscure  chaos  would  have 
disturbed  my  peace :  as  it  was  I  derived  from 
both  a  strange  excitement,  and,  reckless  and 
feverish,  I  wished  the  wind  to  howl  more  wildly, 
the  gloom  to  deepen  to  darkness,  and  the  con- 
fusion to  rise  to  clamor. 

Jumping  over  forms  and  creeping  under  ta- 
bles, I  made  my  way  to  one  of  the  fireplaces : 
there,  kneeling  by  the  high  wire  fender,  I  found 
Burns,  absorbed,  silent,  abstracted  from  all 
round  her  by  the  companionship  of  a  book, 
which  she  read  by  the  dim  glare  of  the  embers. 

"Is  it  still  Rasselasl"  I  asked,  coming  be- 
hind her. 

"Yes  ;"  she  said,  "and  I  have  just  finished 
it." 

And  in  five  minutes  more  she  shut  it  up.  I 
was  glad  of  this. 

"  Now,"  thought  I,  "  I  can  perhaps  get  her  to 
talk."     I  sat  down  by  her  on  the  floor. 

"  What  is  your  name  besides  Burns  1" 

"  Helen." 

"  Do  you  come  a  long  way  from  here  1" 

"  I  come  from  a  place  farther  north — quite  on 
the  borders  of  Scotland." 

"  Will  you  ever  go  back  V 

"  I  hope  so ;  but  nobody  can  be  sure  of  the 
future." 

"  You  must  wish  to  leave  Lowood  1" 

"  No  :  why  should  I  ?  I  was  sent  to  Lowood 
to  get  an  education  ;  and  it  would  be  of  no  use 
going  away  until  I  have  attained  that  object." 

"  But  that  teacher,  Miss  Scatcherd,  is  so  cruel 
to  you;" 

"  Cruel  1  Not  at  all!  She  is  severe:  she 
dislikes  my  faults." 

"And  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  should  dislike 
her  :  I  should  resist  her ;  if  she  struck  me  with 
that  rod,  I  should  get  it  from  her  hand  ;  I  should 
break  it  under  her  nose." 

"  Probably  you  would  do  nothing  of  the  sort : 
but  if  you  did,  Mr.  Brocklehurst  would  expel 
you  from  the  school ;  that  would  be  a  great 
grief  to  your  relations.  It  is  far  better  to  en- 
dure patiently  a  smart  which  nobody  feels  but 
yourself,  than  to  commit  a  hasty  action  whose 
evil  consequences  will  extend  to  all  connected 
with  you — and,  besides,  the  Bible  bids  us  re- 
turn good  for  evil." 

"  But  then  it  seems  disgraceful  to  be  flogged, 
and  to  be  sent  to  stand  in  the  middle  of  a  room 
full  of  people  ;  and  you  are  such  a  great  girl ;  I 


ss 


JANE  EYRE. 


am  far  younger  than  you  and  I  could  not  bear 
it." 

"  Yet  it  would  be  your  duty  to  bear  it,  if  you 
could  not  avoid  it :  it  is  weak  and  silly  to  say 
3^u  can  not  bear  what  it  is  your  fate  to  be  re- 
quired to  bear." 

I  heard  her  with  wonder :  I  could  not  com- 
prehend this  doctrine  of  endurance ;  and  still 
less  could  I  understand  or  sympathize  with  the 
forbearance  she  expressed  for  her  chastiser. 
Still  I  felt  that  Helen  Burns  considered  things 
by  a  light  invisible  to  my  eyes.  I  suspected 
she  might  be  right  and  I  wrong ;  but  I  would 
not  ponder  the  matter  deeply  :  like  Felix,  I  put 
it  off  to  a  more  convenient  season. 

"  You  say  you  have  faults,  Helen  :  what  are 
they  1     To  me  you  seem  very  good." 

"Then  learn  from  me  not  to  judge  by  ap- 
pearances :  I  am,  as  Miss  Scatcherd  said,  slat- 
ternly ;  I  seldom  put,  and  never  keep  things  in 
order ;  I  am  careless  ;  I  forget  rules  •,  I  read 
when  I  should  learn  my  lessons  ;  I  have  no 
method  ;  and  sometimes  I  say,  like  you,  I  can 
not  bear  to  be  subjected  to  systematic  arrange- 
ments. This  is  all  very  provoking  to  Miss 
Scatciierd,  who  is  naturally  neat,  punctual,  and 
particular." 

"  And  cross  and  cruel,"  I  added  ;  but  Helen 
Burns  would  not  admit  my  addition  :  she  kept 
silence. 

"  Is  Miss  Temple  as  severe  to  you  as  Miss 
Scatcherd  !" 

At  the  utterance  of  Miss  Temple's  name,  a 
soft  smile  flitted  over  her  grave  face. 

"  Miss  Temple  is  full  of  goodness  ;  it  pains 
her  to  be  severe  to  any  one,  even  the  worst  in 
the  school ;  she  sees  my  errors,  and  tells  me 
of  them  gently  ;  and,  if  I  do  any  thing  worthy 
of  praise,  she  gives  me  my  meed  liberally.  One 
strong  proof  of  my  wretchedly  defective  nature 
is,  that  even  her  expostulations,  so  mild,  so 
rational,  have  not  influence  to  cure  me  of  my 
faults ;  and  even  her  praise,  though  I  value  it 
most  highly,  can  not  stimulate  me  to  continued 
care  and  foresight." 

"That  is  curious,"  said  I ;  "it  is  so  easy  to 
be  careful." 

"  For  you  I  have  no  doubt  it  is.  I  observed 
you  in  your  class  this  morning,  and  saw  you 
were  closely  attentive  ;  your  thoughts  never 
seemed  to  wander  while  Miss  Miller  explained 
the  lesson  and  questioned  you.  Now,  mine 
co.'.tinually  rove  away  :  when  I  should  be  listen- 
ing to  Miss  Scatcherd,  and  collecting  all  she 
says  with  assiduity,  often  I  lose  the  very  sound 
of  her  voice  ;  I  fall  into  a  sort  of  ilream.  Some- 
times I  think  I  am  in  Nortliumbeiland,  and  that 
the  noises  I  hear  round  ine  are  the  bubbling  of 
a  little  brook  which  runs  through  Deepden, 
near  our  house ;  then,  when  it  comes  to  my 
turn  to  reply,  I  have  to  be  wakened  ;  and,  hav- 
ing heard  nothing  of  what  was  read  for  listen- 
ing to  the  visionary  brook,  I  have  no  answer 
ready." 

"Yet  how  well  you  replied  this  afternoon  !" 
"  It  was  mere  chance  ;  the  subject  on  which 
we  had  been  reading  had  interested  me.  This 
afternoon,  instead  of  dreaming  of  Deepden,  I 
was  wondering  how  a  man  who  wished  to  do 
right  could  act  so  unjustly  and  unwisely  as 
Charles  the  First  sometimes  did  ;  and  I  thought 
what  a  pity  it  was  that,  with  his  integrity  and 


conscientiousness,  he  could  see  no  farther  thao 
the  prerogatives  of  the  crown.  If  he  had  but 
been  able  to  look  to  a  distance,  and  see  how 
what  they  call  the  spirit  of  the  age  was  tend- 
ing!  Still,  I  like  Charles — I  respect  him — I 
pity  him,  poor  murdered  king  !  Yes,  his  ene- 
mies were  the  worst :  they  shed  blood  they 
had  no  right  to  shed.  How  dared  they  kill 
him !" 

Helen  was  talking  to  herself  now ;  she  had 
forgotten  I  could  not  very  well  understand  her 
— that  I  was  ignorant,  or  nearly  so,  of  the  sub- 
ject she  discussed.  I  recalled  her  to  my  level. 
"  And  when  Miss  Temple  teaches  you,  do 
your  thoughts  wander  then  1" 

"  No,  certainly,  not  often ;  because  Miss  Tem- 
ple has  generally  something  to  say  which  is 
newer  than  my  own  reflections  ;  her  language 
is  singularly  agreeable  to  me,  and  the  informa- 
tion she  communicates  is  often  just  what  I 
wished  to  gain  " 

"  Well,  then,  with  Miss  Temple  you  are 
goodl" 

"  Yes,  in  a  passive  way ;  I  make  no  effort ; 
I  follow  as  inclination  guides  me.  There  is 
no  merit  in  such  goodness." 

"  A  great  deal ;  you  are  good  to  those  who 
are  good  to  you.  It  is  all  I  ever  desire  to  be. 
If  people  were  always  kind  and  obedient  to 
those  who  are  cruel  and  unjust,  the  wicked 
people  would  have  it  all  their  own  way  :  they 
would  never  feel  afraid,  and  so  they  would 
never  alter,  but  grow  worse  and  worse.  When 
we  are  struck  at  without  a  reason,  we  should 
strike  back  again  very  hard;  I  am  sure  we 
should — so  hard  as  to  teach  the  person  who 
struck  us  never  to  do  it  again." 

"  You  will  change  your  mind,  I  hope,  when 
you  grow  older ;  as  yet  you  are  but  a  little 
untaught  girl." 

"  But  I  feel  this,  Helen  ;  I  must  dislike  those 
who,  whatever  I  do  to  please  them,  persist  in 
disliking  me  ;  I  must  resist  those  who  punish 
me  unjustly.  It  is  as  natural  as  that  I  should 
love  those  who  show  me  affection,  or  submit 
to  punishment  when  I  feel  it  is  deserved." 

"  Heathens  and  savage  tribes  hold  that  doc- 
trine, but  Christians  and  civilized  nations  dis- 
own it." 

"  How  1     I  don't  understand." 
"  It  is  not  violence  that  best  overcomes  hate 
— nor  vengeance  that  most  certainly  heals  in- 
jury." 
"What  then  1" 

"  Read  the  New  Testament,   and  observe 
what  Christ  says,  and  how  he  acts — make  his 
I  word  your  rule,  and  his  conduct  your  example  " 
'■What  does  he  say  ?" 

"Love  your  enemies  ;  bless  them  that  curse 
you  ;  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you  and  de- 
spitefully  use  you." 

"  Then  I  should  love  iMrs.  Reed,  which  I  can 
not  do;  I  should  bless  her  son  John,  which  is 
impossible." 

In  her  turn,  Helen  Burns  asked  me  to  ex- 
plain ;  and  I  proceeded  forthwith  to  pour  out, 
in  my  own  way,  the  tale  of  my  sufferings  and 
resentments.  Bitter  and  truculent  when  ex- 
cited, I  spoke  as  I  felt,  without  reserve  or 
softening.  Helen  heard  me  patiently  to  ihe 
end  :  I  expected  she  would  then  make  a  re- 
mark, but  she  said  nothing 


JANE  EYRE. 


23 


"  Well,"  I  asked  impatiently,  "  is  not  Mrs. 
Reed,  a  hard-hearted,  bad  woman  1" 

"  She  has  been  unkind  to  you,  no  doubt ; 
because,  you  see,  she  dislikes  your  cast  of 
charaeter,  as  Miss  Scatcherd  does  mine  :  but 
how  minutely  you  remember  all  she  has  done 
and  said  to  you  !  What  a  singularly  deep  im- 
pression her  injustice  seems  to  have  made  on 
your  heart !  No  ill  usage  so  brands  its  record 
on  my  feelings.  '  Would  you  not  be  happier  if 
you  tried  to  forget  her  severity,  together  with 
the  passionate  emotions  it  excited  1  Life  ap- 
pears to  me  too  short  to  be  spent  in  nursing 
animosity  or  registering  wrongs.  We  are, 
and  must  be,  one  and  all,  burdened  with  faults 
in  this  world :  but  the  time  will  soon  come 
when,  I  trust,  we  shall  put  them  off  in  putting 
off  our  corruptible  bodies ;  when  debasement 
and  sin  will  fall  from  us  with  this  cumbrous 
frame  of  flesh,  and  only  the  spark  of  the  spirit 
will  remain,  the  impalpalbe  principle  of  life  and* 
thought,  pure  as  when  it  left  the  Creator  to  in- 
spire the  creature :  whence  it  came  it  will  re- 
turn— perhaps  again  to  be  communicated  to 
some  being  higher  than  man — perhaps  to  pass 
through  gradations  of  glory,  from  the  pale 
human  soul  to  brighten  to  the  seraph  !  Surely  it 
will  never,  on  the  contrary,  be  suffered  to  degen- 
erate from  man  to  fiend  1  No ;  I  can  not  be- 
lieve that ;  I  hold  another  creed,  which  no  one 
ever  taught  me,  and  which  I  seldom  mention, 
but  in  which  I  delight,  and  to  which  I  cling ; 
for  it  extends  hope  to  all :  it  makes  Eternity  a 
rest — a  mighty  home,  not  a  terror  and  an  abyss. 
Besides,  with  this  creed,  I  can  so  clearly  dis- 
tinguish between  the  criminal  and  his  crime  ; 
I  can  so  sincerely  for^^ive  the  first  while  I 
abhor  the  last :  with  this  creed,  revenge  never 
worries  my  heart,  degradation  never  too  deeply 
disgusts  me,  injustice  never  crushes  me  too 
low :  I  live  in  calm,  looking  to  the  end." 

Helen's  head,  always  drooping,  sunk  a  little 
lower  as  she  finished  this  sentence.  I  saw  by 
her  look  she  wished  no  longer  to  talk  to  me, 
but  rather  to  converse  with  her  own  thoughts. 
She  was  not  allowed  much  time  for  meditation  : 
a  monitor,  a  great  rough  girl,  presently  came 
up,  exclaiming,  in  a  strong  Cumberland  accent : 

"  Helen  Burns,  if  you  don't  go  and  put  your 
drawer  in  order,  and  fold  up  your  work  this 
minute,  I'll  tell  Miss  Schatcherd  to  come  and 
look  at  it !"  S 

Helen  sighed  as  her  revery  fled,  and  getting 
up,  obeyed  the  monitor  without  reply  as  with- 
out delay. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

My  first  quarter  at  Lowood  seemed  an  age  ; 
and  not  the  golden  age  either  :  it  comprised  an 
irksome  struggle  with  difficulties  in  habituating 
myself  to  new  rules  and  unwonted  tasks.  The 
fear  of  failure  in  these  points  harassed  me 
•worse  than  the  physical  hardships  of  my  lot ; 
though  these  were  no  trifles. 

During  January,  February,  and  part  of 
March,  the  deep  snows,  and  after  their  melt- 
ing, the  almost  impassable  roads  prevented 
our  stirring  beyond  the  garden  walls,  except  to 
go  to  church  ;  but  within  these  limits  we  had 


to  pass  an  hour  every  day  in  the  open  air. 
Our  clothing  was  insufficient  to  protect  us 
from  the  severe  cold  :  we  had  no  boots,  the 
sm,w  got  into  our  slioes  and  melted  there ; 
our  ungloved  hands  became  numbed  and  cov- 
ered with  chilblains,  as  were  our  feet ;  I  re- 
member well  the  distracting  irritation  I  en- 
dured from  this  cause,  every  evening  when 
my  feet  inflamed  ;  and  the  torture  of  thrusting 
the  swelled,  raw  and  stiff  toes  into  my  shoes 
in  the  morning.  Then  the  scanty  supply  of 
food  was  distressing  :  with  the  keen  appetites 
of  growing  children,  we  had  scarcely  sufficient 
to  keep  alive  a  delicate  invalid.  From  this 
deficiency  of  nourishment  resulted  an  abuse, 
which  pressed  hardly  on  the  younger  pupils  ; 
whenever  the  famished  great  girls  had  an  op- 
portunity, they  would  coax  or  menace  the  lit- 
tle ones  out  of  their  portion.  Many  a  time  I 
have  shared  between  two  claimants  the  pre- 
cious morsel  of  brown  bread  distributed  at  tea 
time  ;  and  after  relinquishing  to  a  third  half  the 
contents  of  my  mug  of  coffee,  I  have  swallowed 
the  remainder  with  an  accompaniment  of  secret 
tears,  forced  from  me  by  the  exigency  of  hun- 
ger. 

Sundays  were  dreary  days  in  that  wintry 
season.  We  had  to  walk  two  miles  to  Brock- 
lebridge  church,  where  our  patron  officiated  : 
we  set  out  cold,  we  arrived  at  church  colder  ; 
during  the  morniug  service  we  became  almost 
paralyzed.  It  was  too  far  to  return  to  dinner, 
and  an  allowance  of  cold  meat  and  bread,  in 
the  same  penurious  proportion  observed  in  our 
ordinary  meals,  was  served  around  between  the 
services. 

At  the  close  of  the  afternoon  service,  we  re- 
turned by  an  exposed  and  hilly  road,  where  the 
bitter  winter  wind,  blowing  over  a  range  of 
snowy  summits  to  the  north,  almost  flayed  the 
skin  from  our  faces. 

I  can  remember  Miss  Temple  walking  light- 
ly and  rapidly  along  our  drooping  line,  her  plaid 
cloak,  which  the  frosty  wind  fluttered,  gathered 
close  about  her,  and  encouraging  us,  by  precept 
and  example,  to  keep  up  our  spirits,  and  march 
forward,  as  she  said,  "  like  stalwart  soldiers." 
The  other  teachers,  poor  things,  were  general- 
ly themselves  too  much  dejected  to  attempt 
the  task  of  cheering  others. 

How  we  longed  for  the  light  and  heat  of  a 
blazing  fire  when  we  got  back  !  But,  to  the 
little  ones  at  least,  this  was  denied ;  each 
hearth  in  the  school-room  was  immediately 
surrounded  by  a  double  row  of  great  girls,  and 
behind  them  the  younger  children  crouched  ia 
groups,  wrapping  their  starved  arms  in  their 
pinafores. 

A  little  solace  came  at  tea  time,  in  the  shape 
of  a  double  ration  of  bread,  a  whole  instead  of 
a  half  slice,  with  the  delicious  addition  of  a 
thin  scrape  of  butter;  it  was  the  hebdomadal 
treat  to  which  we  all  looked  forward  from  Sab- 
bath to  Sabbath.  I  generally  contrived  to  re- 
serve a  moiety  of  this  bounteous  repast  for  my- 
self, but  the  remainder  I  was  invariably  obliged 
to  part  with. 

The  Sunday  evening  was  spent  in  repeating, 
by  heart,  the  Church  Catechism,  and  the  fifth, 
sixth,  and  seventh  chapters  of  St.  Matthew; 
and  in  listening  to  a  long  sermon,  read  by  Miss 
Miller,  whose  irrepressible  yawns  attested  her 


24 


JANE  EYRE. 


■weariness.  A  frequent  interlude  of  these  per- 
formances was  the  enactment  of  the  part  of 
Eutychus  by  some  hall  dozen  of  little  girls  ; 
who,  overpowered  by  sleep,  would  fall  down,  if 
not  out  of  the  third  loft,  yet  off  the  fourth  form, 
and  be  taken  up  half  dead.  The  remedy  wa& 
to  thrust  them  forward  into  the  center  of  the 
school-room,  and  oblige  them  to  stand  there 
till  the  sermon  was  finished.  Sometimes  their 
feet  failed  them,  and  they  sunk  together  in  a 
heap  ;  they  were  then  propped  up  with  the  mon- 
itor's high  stools. 

I  have  not  yet  alluded  to  the  visits  of  Mr. 
Brocklehurst ;  and,  indeed,  that  gentleman  was 
from  home  during  the  greater  part  of  the  first 
month  after  my  arrival — perhaps  prolonging 
his  stay  with  his  friend  the  archdeacon  ;  his 
absence  was  a  relief  to  me.  1  need  not  say 
that  I  had  my  own  reasons  for  dreading  his 
coming  ;  but  come  he  did  at  last. 

One  afternoon  (I  had  then  been  three  weeks 
at  Lowood),  as  I  was  sitting  with  a  slate  in  ray 
hand,  puzzling  over  a  sum  in  long  division,  my 
eyes,  raised  in  abstraction  to  the  window, 
caught  sight  of  a  figure  just  passing  ;  I  recog- 
nized, almost  instinctively,  that  gaunt  outline  ; 
and  when,  two  minutes  after,  all  the  school, 
teachers  included,  rose  en  masse,  it  was  not 
necessary  for  me  to  look  up  in  order  to  ascer- 
tain whose  entrance  they  thus  greeted.  A  long 
stride  measured  the  school-room,  and  presently 
beside  Miss  Temple,  who  herself  had  risen, 
stood  the  same  black  column  which  had  frowned 
on  me  so  ominously  from  the  hearth-rug  of 
CTateshead.  I  now  glanced  sideways  at  this 
piece  of  architecture.  Yes,  I  was  right ;  it 
was  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  buttoned  up  in  a  sur- 
tout,  and  looking  longer,  narrower,  and  more 
rigid  than  ever. 

I  had  my  own  reasons  for  being  dismayed 
at  this  apparition  ;  too  well  I  remembered  the 
perfidious  hints  given  by  Mrs.  Reed  about  my 
disposition,  &c.  ;  the  promise  pledged  by  Mr. 
Brocklehurst  to  apprise  Miss  Temple  and  the 
teachers  of  my  vicious  nature.  All  along  I  had 
been  dreading  the  fulfillment  of  this  promise  ;  I 
had  been  looking  out  daily  for  the  "  Coming 
Man,"  whose  information  respecting  my  past 
hfe  and  conversation  was  to  brand  me  as  a 
b£Ki  child  forever ;  now  there  he  was.  He 
stood  at  Miss  Temple's  side  ;  he  was  speaking 
low  in  her  ear  ;  I  did  not  doubt  he  was  making 
disclosures  of  my  villainy,  and  I  watched  her 
eye  with  painful  anxiety,  expecting  every  mo- 
ment to  see  its  dark  orb  turn  on  me  a  glance 
of  repugnance  and  contempt.  I  listened,  too  ; 
and  as  I  happened  to  be  seated  quite  at  the  top 
of  the  room,  I  caught  most  of  what  he  said  ; 
its  import  relieved  me  from  immediate  appre- 
hension. 

"  I  suppose,  Miss  Temple,  the  thread  I  bought 
at  Lowton  will  do ;  it  struck  me  that  it  would 
be  just  of  the  quality  for  the  calico  chemises, 
and  I  sorted  the  needles  to  match.  You  may 
tell  Miss  Smith  that  I  forgot  to  make  a  memo- 
randum of  the  darning-needles,  but  she  shall 
have  some  papers  sent  in  next  week  ;  and  she 
is  not,  on  any  account,  to  give  out  more  than 
one  at  a  time  to  each  pupil  ;  if  they  have  more, 
they  are  apt  la  be  careless  and  lose  them.  And, 
oh,  ma'am  !  I  wish  the  woolen  stockings  were 
better  looked  to !     When  I  was  liere  last  I  went 


into  the  kitchen-garden  and  examined  the 
clothes  drying  on  the  line  ;  there  was  a  quan- 
tity of  black  hose  in  a  very  bad  state  of  repair  ; 
from  the  size  of  the  holes  in  them  I  was  sure 
they  had  not  been  well  mended  from  time  to 
time." 

He  paused. 

"  Your  directions  shall  be  attended  to,  sir," 
said  Miss  Temple. 

"  And,  ma'am,"  he  continued,  "  the  laundress 
tells  me  some  of  the  girls  have  two  clean  tuck- 
ers in  the  week ;  it  is  too  much  ;  the  rules 
limit  them  to  one." 

"  I  think  I  can  explain  that  circumstance, 
sir.  Agnes  and  Catherine  Johnstone  were  in- 
vited to  take  tea  with  some  friends  at  Lowton 
last  Thursday,  and  I  gave  them  leave  to  put 
on  clean  tuckers  for  the  occasion."  ' 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  nodded. 

"  Well,  for  once  it  may  pass  ;  but  please  not 
to  let  the  circumstance  occur  too  often.  And 
there  is  another  thing  which  surprised  me  ;  I 
find,  in  settling  accounts  with  the  housekeeper, 
that  a  lunch,  consisting  of  bread  and  cheese, 
has  twice  been  served  out  to  the  girls  during 
the  past  fortnight.  How  is  this^  I  look  over 
the  regulations,  and  I  find  no  such  meal  as 
lunch  mentioned.  Who  introduced  this  inno- 
vation 1  and  by  what  authority  1" 

"  I  must  be  responsible  for  the  citcumstance, 
sir,"  replied  Miss  Temple  ;  "  the  breakfast  was 
so  ill  prepared  that  the  pupils  cotild  not  possi- 
bly eat  it ;  and  I  dared  not  allow  them  to  re- 
main fasting  till  dinner  time." 

"  Madam,  allow  me  an  instant  I  You  are 
aware  that  my  plan  in  bringing  up  these  girls 
is,  not  to  accustom  them  to  habits  of  luxury 
and  indulgence,  but  to  render  them  hardy,  pa- 
tient, self-denying.  Should  any  little  accident- 
al disappointment  of  the  appetite  occur,  such 
as  the  spoiling  of  a  meal,  the  under  or  over 
dressing  of  a  dish,  the  incident  ought  not  to  be 
neutralized  by  replacing  with  something  more 
delicate  the  comfort  lost,  thus  pampering  the 
body  and  subverting  the  aim  of  this  institution; 
it  ought  to  be  improved  to  the  spiritual  edifica- 
tion of  the  pupils,  by  encouraging  them  to 
evince  fortitude  under  the  temporary  privation. 
A  brief  address  on  those  occasions  would  not 
be  mistimed,  wherein  a  judicious  instructor 
vKould  take  the  opportunity  of  referring  to  the 
sufferings  of  the  primitive  Christians ;  to  the 
torments  of  martyrs,  to  the  exhortations  of  our 
blessed  Lord  himself,  calling  upon  his  disciples 
to  take  up  their  cross  and  follow  him  ;  to  his 
warnings  that  man  shall  not  live  by  bread 
alone,  but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth  ou* 
of  the  mouth  of  God ;  to  his  divine  consola- 
tions, '  if  ye  suffer  hunger  or  thirst  for  my  sake, 
happy  are  ye.'  Oh,  madam,  when  you  put 
bread  and  cheese,  instead  of  burned  porridge 
into  these  children's  mouths,  you  may  indeed 
feed  their  vile  bodies,  but  you  little  think  how 
you  starve  their  immortal  souls-?" 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  again  paused  —  perhaps 
overcome  by  his  feelings.  Miss  Temple  had 
looked  down  when  he  first  began  to  speak  to 
her,  but  she  now  gazed  straight  before  her,  and 
her  face,  naturally  pale  as  marble,  appeared  to 
be  assuming  also  the  coldness  and  fixity  of  that 
material,  especially  her  mouih,  closed  as  if  it 
would  have  required  a  sculptor's  chisel  to  open 


JANE  EYRE. 


25 


it,  and  her  brow  settled  gradually  into  petrified 
severity. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  standing  on 
the  hearth  with  his  hands  behind  his  back,  ma- 
jestically surveyed  the  whole  school.  Sudden- 
ly his  eye  gave  a  blink,  as  if  it  had  met  some- 
thing that  either  dazzled  or  shocked  its  pupil ; 
turning,  he  said,  in  more  rapid  accents  than  he 
had  hitherto  used, 

"  Miss  Temple,  Miss  Temple,  what— what  is 
that  girl  with  curled  hair  1  Red  hair,  ma'am, 
curled— curled  all  overV  And  extending  his 
cane  he  pointed  to  the  awful  object,  his  hand 
shaking  as  he  did  so. 

"  It  is  Julia  Severn,"  replied  Miss  Temple, 
very  quietly. 

"Julia  Severn,  ma'am!  And  why  has  she, 
or  any  other,  curled  hair^  Why,  in  defiance 
of  every  precept  and  principle  of  this  house, 
does  she  conform  to  the  world  so  openly — here, 
in  an  evangelical,  charitable  establishment — as 
to  wear  her  hair  one  mass  of  curls  1" 

"Julia's  hair  curls  naturally,"  returned  Miss 
Temple,  still  more  quietly. 

"  Naturally  I  Yes,  but  we  are  not  to  con- 
form to  nature  ;  I  wish  these  girls  to  be  the 
children  of  grace;  and  why  that  abundance'? 
I  have  again  and  again  intimated  that  I  desire 
the  hair  to  be  arranged  closely,  modestly,  plain- 
ly. Miss  Temple,  that  girl's  hair  must  be  cut 
off  entirely  ;  I  will  send  a  barber  to-morrow  ; 
and  I  see  others  who  have  far  too  much  of  the 
excrescence  ;  that  tall  girl,  tell  her  to  turn 
round.  Tell  all  the  first  form  to  rise  up  and 
direct  their  faces  to  the  wall." 

Miss  Temple  passed  her  handkerchief  over 
her  lips,  as  if  to  smooth  away  the  involuntary 
J  smile  that  curled  them  ;  she  gave  the  order, 
however,  and  when  the  first  class  could  take 
in  what  was  required  of  them,  they  obeyed. 
Leaning  back  on  my  bench,  I  could  see  the 
looks  and  grimaces  with  which  they  comment- 
j  ed  on  this  manoeuver  ;  it  was  a  pity  Mr.  Brock- 
lehurst could  not  see  them  too  ;  he  would,  per- 
haps have  felt  that,  whatever  he  might  do  with 
the  outside  of  the  cup  and  platter,  the  inside 
was  farther  beyond  his  interferense  than  he 
imagined. 

He  scrutinized  the  reverse  of  these  living 
medals  some  five  minutes,  then  pronounced 
senteiice.  These  words  fell  lilcl^  the  knell  of 
doom  • 

"All  those  topknots  must  be  cutoff." 

Miss  Temple  seemed  to  remonstrate. 

"  Madam,"  he  pursued,  "  I  have  a  Master  to 
serve  whose  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world  ;  my 
mission  is  to  mortify  in  these  girls  the  lusts  of 
the  flesh  ;  to  teach  them  to  clothe  themselves 
with  shame-facedness  and  sobriety,  not  with 
braided  hair  and  costly  apparel ;  and  each  of 
the  young  persons  before  us  has  a  string  of 
hair  twisted  in  plaits  which  vanity  itself  might 
have  woven;  these,  I  repeat,  must  be  cut  off; 
think  of  the  time  wasted,  of — " 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  was  here  interrupted  :  three 
other  visitors,  ladies,  now  entered  the  room. 
'  They  ought  to  have  come  a  little  sooner  to 
have  heard  his  lecture  on  dress,  for  they  were 
splendidly  attired  in  velvet,  silk,  and  furs. 
The  two  younger  of  the  trio  (fine  girls  of  six- 
teen and  seventeen)  had  gray  beaver  hats,  then 
in   fashion,  shaded   with   ostrich-plumes,   and 


from  under  the  brim  of  this  graceful  head-dress 
fell  a  profusion  of  ligiit  tresses,  elaborately 
curled  ;  the  elder  lady  was  enveloped  in  a  cost- 
ly velvet  shawl,  trimmed  with  ermine,  and  she 
wore  a  false  front  of  French  curls. 

These  ladies  were  deferentially  received  by 
Miss  Temple,  as  Mrs.  and  the  Misses  Brockle- 
hurst, and  conducted  to  seats  of  honor  at  the 
top  of  the  room.  It  seems  they  had  come  in 
the  carriage  with  their  reverend  relative,  and 
had  been  conducting  a  rummaging  scrutiny  of 
the  rooms  up  stairs,  while  he  transacted  busi- 
ness with  the  housekeeper,  questioning  the 
laundress,  and  lecturing  the  superintendent. 
They  now  proceeded  to  address  divers  re- 
marks and  reproofs  to  Miss  Smith,  who  was 
charged  with  the  care  of  the  linen  and  the  in- 
spection of  the  dormitories  ;  but  I  had  no  time 
to  listen  to  what  they  said ;  ether  matters 
called  off  and  enchained  my  attention. 

Hitherto,  while  gathering  up  the  discourse 
of  Mr.  Brocklehurst  and  Miss  Temple,  I  had 
not,  at  the  same  time,  neglected  precautions  to 
secure  my  own  persona^  safety;  which  I 
thought  would  be  effected,  if  I  could  only  elude 
observation.  To  this  end,  I  had  set  well  back 
on  the  form,  and  while  seeming  to  be  busy  with 
my  sum,  had  held  my  slate  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  conceal  my  face  :  I  might  have  escaped  no- 
tice, had  not  my  treacherous  slate  somehow 
happened  to  slip  from  my  hand,  and  falling  with 
an  obtrusive  crash,  directly  drawn  every  eye 
upon  me ;  I  knew  that  it  was  all  over  now, 
and,  as  I  stooped  to  pick  up  the  two  fragments 
of  slate,  I  rallied  my  forces  for  the  worst.  It 
came. 

"A  careless  girl!"  said  Mr.  Brocklehurst, 
and  unmediately  after—"  It  is  the  new  pupil,  I 
perceive."  And  before  I  could  draw  breath, 
"  I  must  not  forget  I  have  a  word  to  say  re- 
specting her."  Then  aloud — how  loud  it  seem- 
ed to  me  I — "  Let  the  child  who  broke  her  slate, 
come  forward !" 

Of  my  own  accord  I  could  not  have  stirred  ; 
I  was  paralyzed  :  but  the  two  great  girls  who 
sat  on  each  side  of  me  set  me  on  my  legs  and 
pushed  me  toward  the  dread  judge,  and  then 
Miss  Temple  gently  assisted  me  to  his  very 
feet,  and  I  caught  her  whispered  counsel. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  Jane  ;  I  saw  it  was  an  ac 
cident :  you  shall  not  be  punished." 

The  kind  whisper  went  to  my  heart  like  a 
dagger. 

"  Another  minute,  and  she  will  despise  me 
for  a  hypocrite,"  thought  I ;  and  an  impulse  of 
fury  against  Reed,  Brocklehurst,  and  Co., 
bounded  in  my  pulses  at  the  conviction.  I  was 
no  Helen  Burns. 

"  Fetch  that  stool,"  said  Mr.  Brocklehurst, 
pointing  to  a  very  high  one  from  which  a  mon- 
itor had  just  risen.     It  was  brought. 

"  Place  the  child  upon  it." 

And  I  was  placed  there,  by  whom  I  don't 
know ;  I  was  in  no  condition  to  note  particu- 
lars ;  I  was  only  aware  that  they  had  hoisted 
me  up  to  the  height  of  Mr.  Brocklehurst's  nose, 
that  he  was  within  a  yard  of  me,  and  that  a 
spread  of  shot  orange  and  purple  silk  pelisses, 
and  a  cloud  of  silvery  plumage  extended  and 
waved  below  me. 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  hemmed. 

"Ladies,"  said   he,  turning  to  his  family 


26 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Mies  Temple,  teachers,  and  children,  you  all 
aee  this  girlT' 

Of  course  they  did  ;  for  I  felt  their  eyes  di- 
rected like  burning-glasses  against  my  scorched 
skin. 

«» You  see  she  is  yet  young  ;  you  observe 
she  possesses  the  ordinary  form  of  child- 
hood ;  God  has  graciously  given  her  the  shape 
that  he  has  given  to  all  of  us ;  no  signal  de- 
formity points  her  out  as  a  marked  character. 
Who  would  think  that  the  Evil  One  had  al- 
ready found  a  servant  and  agent  in  herl  Yet 
such,  I  grieve  to  say,  is  the  case." 

A  pause — in  which  I  began  to  steady  the 
palsy  of  my  nerves,  and  to  feel  that  the  rubicon 
was  passed  ;  and  that  the  trial,  no  longer  to  be 
shirked,  must  be  firmly  sustained. 

"My  dear  children,"  pursued  the  black  mar- 
ble clergyman,  with  pathos,  "  this  is  a  sad,  a 
melancholy  occasion  ;  for  it  becomes  my  duty 
to  warn  you,  that  this  girl,  who  might  be  one 
of  God's  own  lambs,  is  a  little  Cast-away  ;  not  a 
member  of  the  true  flock,  but  evidently  an  in- 
terloper and  an  alien.  You  must  be  on  your 
guard  against  her  ;  you  must  shun  her  exam- 
ple ;  if  necessary,  avoid  her  company,  exclude 
her  from  your  sports,  and  shut  her  from  your 
converse.  Teachers,  you  must  watch  her ; 
keep  your  eyes  on  her  movements,  weigh  well 
her  words,  scrutinize  her  actions,  punish  her 
body  to  save  her  soul ;  if,  indeed,  such  salva- 
tion be  possible,  for  (my  tongue  falters  while  I 
tell  it)  this  girl — this  child,  the  native  of  a 
Christian  land,  worse  than  many  a  little  heath- 
en who  says  its  prayers  to  Brahma  and  kneels 
before  Juggernaut — this  girl  is — a  liar  !"' 

Now  came  a  pause  of  ten  minutes  ;  during 
which  I,  by  this  time  in  perfect  possession  of 
my  wits,  observed  all  the  female  Brocklehursts 
produce  their  pocket-handkerchiefs  and  apply 
them  to  their  optics,  while  the  elderly  lady 
swayed  herself  to  and  fro,  and  the  younger 
ones  whispered,  "  How  shocking  !" 

Mr.  Brocklehurst  resumed. 

"  This  I  learned  from  her  benefactress  ;  from 
the  pious  and  charitable  lady  who  adopted  her 
in  her  orphan  state,  reared  her  as  her  own 
daughter,  and  whose  kindness,  whose  generos- 
ity, the  unhappy  girl  repaid  by  an  ingratitude  so 
bad,  so  dreadful,  that  at  last  her  excellent  pat- 
roness was  obliged  to  separate  her  from  her 
own  young  ones,  fearful  lest  her  vicious  example 
should  contaminate  their  purity ;  she  has  sent 
her  here  to  be  healed,  even  as  the  Jews  of  old 
sent  their  diseased  to  the  ti:oubled  pool  of  Be- 
thesda;  and,  teachers,  superintendent,  I  beg  of 
you  not  to  allow  the  waters  to  stagnate  round 
her." 

With  this  sublime  conclusion,  Mr.  Brockle- 
hurst adjusted  the  top  button  of  his  surtout, 
muttered  something  to  his  family,  who  rose, 
bowed  to  Miss  Temple,  and  then  all  the  great 
people  sailed  in  state  from  the  room.  Turning 
at  the  door,  my  judge  said, 

"Let  her  stand  half  an  hour  longer  on  that 
stool,  and  let  no  one  speak  to  her  during  the 
rem<iinder  of  the  day." 

There  I  was,  then,  mounted  aloft :  I  who 
had  said  I  could  not  bear  the  shame  of  stand- 
ing on  my  natural  feet  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  was  now  exposed  lo  general  view  on  a 
pedestal    of  infamy.      What    my    sensations 


were  no  language  can  describe  ;  but  just  as 
they  all  rose,  stifling  my  breath  and  constrict- 
ing my  throat,  a  girl  came  up  and  passed  me ; 
in  passing,  she  lifted  her  eyes.  What  a  strange 
light  inspired  them?  What  an  extraordinary 
sensation  that  ray  sent  through  me!  How  the 
new  feeling  bore  me  up.  It  was  as  if  a  martyr, 
a  hero,  had  passed  a  slave  or  victim,  and  im- 
parted strength  in  the  transit.  I  mastered  the 
rising  hysteria,  lifted  up  my  head,  and  took  a 
firm  stand  on  the  stool.  Helen  IBurns  asked 
some  slight  question  about  her  work  of  Miss 
Smith,  was  chidden  for  the  triviality  of  the  in- 
quiry, returned  to  her  place,  and  smiled  at  me 
as  she  again  went  by.  What  a  smile !  I  re- 
member it  now,  and  I  know  that  it  was  the 
effluence  of  fine  intellect,  of  true  courage  ;  it 
lighted  up  her  marked  lineaments,  her  thin 
face,  her  sunken,  gray  eye,  like  a  reflection 
from  the  aspect  of  an  angel.  Yet  at  that  mo- 
ment Helen  Burns  wore  on  her  arm  "  the  un- 
tidy badge  ;"  scarcely  an  hour  ago  I  heard  her 
condemned  by  Miss  Scatcherd  to  a  dinner  of 
bread  and  water  on  the  morrow,  because  she 
had  blotted  an  exercise  in  copying  it  out. 
Such  is  the  imperfect  nature  of  man — such 
spots  are  there  on  the  disc  of  the  clearest  plan- 
et ;  and  eyes  like  Miss  Scatcherd's  can  only 
see  those  minute  defects,  and  are  blind  to  the 
full  brightness  of  the  orb. 


CHAPTER  Vni. 

Ere  the  half-hour  ended,  five  o'clock  struck  ; 
school  was  dismissed,  and  all  were  gone  into 
the  refectory  to  tea.  I  now  ventured  to  de- 
scend ;  it  was  deep  dusk ;  I  retired  into  a 
corner  and  sat  down  on  the  floor.  The  spell 
by  which  I  had  been  so  far  supported  began  to 
dissolve ;  reaction  took  place,  and  soon,  so 
overwhelming  was  the  grief  that  seized  me,  I 
sunk  prostrate  with  my  face  to  the  ground.  • 
Now  I  wept ;  Helen  Burns  was  not  here ; 
nothing  sustained  me :  left  to  myself  I  aban- 
doned myself,  and  my  tears  watered  the  boards. 
I  had  meant  to  be  so  good,  and  to  do  so  much 
at  Lowood ;  to  make  so  many  friends,  to  earn 
respect,  and  win  affection.  Already  I  had 
made  visible  progress ;  that  very  morning  I 
had  reached  the  head  of  my  class  ;  Miss  Miller 
had  praised  me  warmly;  Miss  Temple  had 
smiled  approbation  ;  she  had  promised  to  teach 
me  drawing,  and  to  let  me  learn  French,  if  I 
continued  to  make  similar  improvement  two 
months  longer :  and  then  I  was  well  received 
by  my  fellow-pupils ;  treated  as  an  equal  by 
those  of  my  own  age,  and  not  molested  by  any, 
now,  here  I  lay  again  crushed  and  trodden  on; 
and  could  I  ever  rise  more'! 

"  Never,"  1  thought ;  and  ardently  I  wished 
to  die.  While  sobbing  out  this  wish  in  broken 
accents,  some  one  approached  ;  I  started  up — 
again  Helen  Burns  was  near  me  ;  the  fading 
fires  just  showed  her  coming  up  the  long, 
vacant  room  ;  she  brought  my  coffee  and  bread. 

"  Come,  eat  something,"  she  said  ;  but  I  put 
both  away  from  me,  feeling  as  if  a  drop  or  a 
crumb  would  have  choked  me  in  my  present 
condition.  Helen  regarded  me,  probably  with 
surprise  :  I  could  not  now  abate  my  agitation, 


JANE  EYRE 


27 


though  I  tried  hard  ;  I  continued  to  weep  aloud. 
She  sat  down  on  the  ground  near  me,  em- 
braced her  knees  with  her  arms,  and  rested 
her  head  upon  them ;  in  that  attitude  she  re- 
mained silent  as  an  Indian.  I  wa.«  the  first 
who  spoke. 

"  Helen,  why  do  you  stay  with  a  girl  whom 
every  body  believes  to  be  a  liarl" 

"  Every  body,  Jane  1  Why,  there  are  only 
eighty  people  who  have  heard  you  called  so, 
aild  the  world  contains  hundreds  of  mill- 
ions." 

"  But  what  have  I  to  do  with  millions  1  The 
eighty  I  know  despise  me." 

"^  Jane,  you  are  mistaken  ;  probably  not  one 
in  the  school  either  despises  or  dislikes  you ; 
many,  I  am  sure,  pity  you  much." 

"  How  can  they  pity  me  after  what  Mr. 
Brocklehurst  saidl" 

"  Mr.  Brocklehurst  is  not  a  god ;  nor  is  he 
even  a  great  and  admired  man :  he  is  little 
liked  here  ;  he  never  took  steps  to  make  him- 
self liked.  Had  he  treated  you  as  an  especial 
favorite,  you  would  have  found  enemies,  de- 
clared or  covert,  all  around  you  ;  as  it  is,  the 
greater  number  would  offer  you  sympathy  if 
they  dared.  Teachers  and  pupils  may  look 
coldly  on  you  for  a  day  or  two,  but  friendly 
feelings  are  concealed  in  their  hearts  ;  and  if 
you  persevere  in  doing  well,  these  feelings  will 
ere  long  appear  so  much  the  more  evidently 
for  their  temporary  suppression.  Besides, 
Jane — "     She  paused. 

"Well,  Helen  1"  said  I,  putting  my  hand 
into  hers ;  she  chafed  my  fingers  gently  to 
warm  them,  and  went  on — 

"  If  all  the  world  hated  you,  and  believed 
you  wicked,  while  your  own  conscience  ap- 
proved you,  and  absolved  you  from  guilt,  you 
"would  not  be  without  friends." 

"  No  ;  I  know  I  should  think  well  of  myself ; 
but  that  is  not  enough  ;  if  others  don't  love 
me,  I  would  rather  die  than  live — I  can  not 
bear  to  be  solitary  and  hated,  Helen.  Look 
here  ;  to  gain  some  real  affection  from  you,  or 
Miss  Temple,  or  any  other  whom  I  truly  love, 
I  would  willingly  submit  to  have  the  bone  of 
my  arm  broken,  or  to  let  a  bull  toss  me,  or  to 
stand  behind  a  kicking  horse,  and  let  it  dash 
its  hoof  at  my  chest — " 

"  Hush,  Jane  !  you  think  too  much  of  the 
love  of  human  beings  ;  you  are  too  impulsive, 
too  vehement ;  the  Sovereign  hand  that  created 
your  frame,  and  put  life  into  it,  has  provided 
you  with  other  resources  than  your  feeble  self, 
or  than  creatures  feeble  as  you.  Besides  this 
earth,  and  besides  the  race  of  men,  there  is  an 
invisible  world  and  a  kingdom  of  spirits ;  that 
■world  is  round  us,  for  it  is  every  where  ;  and 
those  spirits  watch  us,  for  they  are  commis- 
sioned to  guard  us  ;  and  if  we  were  dying  in 
pain  and  shame,  if  scorn  smote  us  on  all  sides, 
and  hatred  crushed  us,  angels  see  our  tortures, 
recognize  our  innocence  (if  innocent  we  be, 
as  I  know  you  are  of  this  eharge  which  Mr. 
13rocklehurst  has  weakly  and  pompously  re- 
peated at  second-hand  from  Mrs.  Reed ;  for  I 
read  a  sincere  nature  in  your  ardent  eyes  and 
on  your  clear  front),  and  God  waits  only  the 
separation  of  spirit  from  flesh  to  crown  us  with 
a  full  reward.  Why,  then,  should  we  ever 
sink  overwhelmed  with  distress,  when  life  is 


so  soon  over,  and  death  is  so  certam  an  en- 
trance to  happiness — to  glory  1" 

I  was  silent ;  Helen  had  calmed  me  ;  but  in 
the  tranquillity  she  imparted  there  was  an  alloy 
of  inexpressible  sadness.  I  felt  the  impression 
of  woe  as  she  spoke,  but  I  could  not  tell 
whence  it  came ;  and  when,  having  done 
speaking,  she  breathed  a  little  fast  and  coughed 
a  short  cough,  I  momentarily  forgot  my  own 
sorrows  to  yield  to  a  vague  concern  for  her. 

Resting  my  head  on  Helen's  shoulder,  I  put 
my  arms  round  her  waist;  she  drew  me  to  her, 
and  we  reposed  in  silence.  We  had  not  sat 
long  thus,  when  another  person  came  in. 
Some  heavy  clouds,  swept  from  the  sky  by  a 
rising  wind,  had  left  the  moon  bare  ;  and  her 
light,  streaming  in  through  a  window  near, 
shone  full  both  on  us  and  on  the  approaching 
figure,  which  we  at  once  recognized  as  Miss 
Temple. 

"  I  came  on  purpose  to  find  you,  Jane  Eyre," 
said  she  ;  "  I  want  you  in  my  room  ;  and  as 
Helen  Burns  is  with  you,  she  may  come  too." 

We  went ;  following  the  superintendent's 
guidance,  we  had  to  tread  some  intricate 
passages,  and  mount  a  stair-case  before  we 
reached  her  apartment ;  it  contained  a  good 
fire,  and  looked  cheerful.  Miss  Temple  told 
Helen  Burns  to  be  seated  in  a  low  arm-chair 
on  one  side  of  the  hearth,  and  herself  taking 
another,  she  called  me  to  her  side. 

"  Is  it  all  overl"  she  asked,  looking  down 
at  my  face.  "  Have  you  cried  your  grief 
away '!" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  never  shall  do  that." 

"  Whyl" 

"  Because  I  have  been  wrongly  accused ; 
and  you,  ma'am,  and  every  body  else  will  now 
think  me  wicked." 

"  We  shall  think  you  what  you  prove  your- 
self to  be,  my  child.  Continue  to  act  as  a 
good  girl,  and  you  will  satisfy  me." 

"  Shall  I,  Miss  Temple  1" 

"  You  wdl,"  said  she,  passing  her  arm 
round  me.  "  And  now  tell  me  who  is  the  lady 
whom  Mr.  Brocklehurst  called  your  benefac- 
tress V 

"  Mrs.  ReeiJ,  my  uncle's  wife.  My  uncle  is 
dead,  and  he  left  me  to  her  care." 

"  Did  she  not,  then,  adopt  you  of  her  own 
accord  1" 

"  No,  ma'am ;  she  was  sorry  to  have  to  do 
it ;  but  my  uncle,  as  I  have  often  heard  the 
servants  say,  got  her  to  promise,  before  he 
died,  that  she  would  always  keep  me." 

"  Well,  now,  Jane,  you  know,  or  at  least  I 
will  tell  you,  that  when  a  criminal  is  accused, 
he  is  always  allowed  to  speak  in  his  own 
defense.  You  have  been  charged  with  false- 
hood ;  defend  yourself  to  me  as  well  as  you 
can.  Say  whatever  your  memory  suggests  as 
true  ;  but  add  nothing  and  exaggerate  nothing." 

I  resolved  in  the  depth  of  my  heart  that  I 
would  be  most  moderate — most  correct  ;  and, 
having  reflected  a  few  minutes  in  order  to 
arrange  coherently  what  I  had  to  say,  I  told 
her  all  the  story  of  my  sad  childhood.  Ex- 
hausted by  emotion,  my  language  was  more 
subdued  than  it  generally  was  when  it  developed 
that  sad  theme  ;  and  mindful  of  Helen's  warn- 
ings against  the  indulgence  of  resentment,  I 
infused  into  the  narrative  far  less  of  gall  and 


28 


JANE  EYRE. 


wormwood  than  ordinary.  Thus  restrained 
and  simplified,  it  sounded  more  credible ;  I 
felt  as  I  went  on  that  Miss  Temple  fully 
believed  me. 

In  the  course  of  the  talc  I  tiad  mentioned 
Mr.  Lloyd  as  having  come  to  see  me  after  the 
fit ;  for  I  never  forgot  the,  to  me,  frightful 
episode  of  the  red-room ;  in  detailing  which, 
my  excitement  was  sure,  in  some  degree,  to 
break  bounds  ;  for  nothing  could  soften  in  my 
recollection  the  spasm  of  agony  which  clutched 
my  heart  when  Mrs.  Reed  spurned  my  wild 
supplication  for  pardon,  and  locked  me  a 
second  time  in  the  dark  and  haunted  cham- 
Ijer. 

I  had  finished.  Miss  Temple  regarded  me  a 
few  minutes  in  silence;    she  then  said — 

"  I  know  something  of  Mr.  Lloyd  ;  I  shall 
write  to  him ;  if  his  reply  agrees  with  your 
statement,  you  shall  be  publicly  cleared  from 
every  imputation ;  to  me,  Jane,  you  are  clear 
now." 

She  kissed  me,  and  still  keeping  me  at  her 
side  (where  I  was  contented  to  stand,  for  I  de- 
rived a  child's  pleasure  from  the  contemplation 
of  her  face,  her  dress,  her  one  or  two  orna- 
ments, her  while  forehead,  her  clustered  and 
shining  curls,  and  beaming  dark  eyes),  she 
proceeded  to  address  Helen  Burns. 

"How  are  you  to-night  Helen  1  Have  you 
coughed  much  to-day  !" 

"  Not  quite  so  much,  I  think,  ma'am." 
"  And  the  pain  in  the  chest  V 
"It  is  a  little  better." 

Miss  Temple  got  up,  took  her  hand  and  ex- 
amined her  pulse  ;  then  she  returned  to  her 
own  seat  :  as  she  resumed  it,  I  heard  her  sigh 
low.  She  was  pensive  a  few  minutes,  then 
rousing  heiseli",  she  said  cheerfully, 

"  But  you  two  are  my  visitors  to-night ;  I 
must  treat  you  as  such."     She  rung  her  bell. 

"  Barbara,"  she  said  to  the  servant  who  an- 
swered it,  "  I  have  not  yet  had  tea ;  bring  the 
tray,  and  place  cups  for  these  two  young  la- 
dies." 

And  a  tray  was  soon  brought.  How  pretty 
to  my  eyes  did  the  china  cups  and  bright  tea- 
pot look,  placed  on  the  little  round  table  near 
the  fire !  How  fragrant  was  the  steam  of  the 
beverage,  and  the  scent  of  the  toast !  of  which, 
however,  I,  to  my  dismay  (for  I  was  beginning 
to  be  hungry),  discerned  only  a  very  small  por- 
tion; Miss  Temple  discerned  it  too. 

"  Barbara,"  said  she,  "  can  you  not  bring  a 
little  more  bread  and  butter  1  There  is  not 
enough  for  three." 

Barbara  went  out ;  she  returned  soon  ; 
"Madam,  Mrs.  Harden  says  she  has -sent  up 
the  usual  quantity." 

Mrs.  Harden,  be  it  observed,  was  the  house- 
keeper ;  a  woman  after  Mr.  Brocklehurst's  own 
heart,  made  up  of  equal  parts,  whalebone  and 
iron. 

"Oh,  very  well!"  returned  Miss  Temple; 
"  we  must  make  it  do,  Barbara,  I  suppose." 
And  as  the  girl  withdrew,  she  added,  smilingly, 
"  Fortunately,  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  supply 
deficiencies  for  this  once." 

Having  invited  Helen  and  me  to  approach 
the  table,  and  placed  before  each  of  us  a  cup  of 
lea,  with  one  delicious  but  thin  morsel  of  toast, 
she  got  up,  and  unlocked  a  drawer,  and  tak- 


ing from  it  a  parcel  wrapped  in  paper,  dis- 
closed presently  to  our  eyes  a  good-sized  seed- 
cake. 

"  I  meant  to  give  each  of  you  some  of  this 
to  take  with  you,"  said  she ;  "  but  as  there 
is  so  little  toast  you  must  have  it  now,"  and 
she  proceeded  to  cut  slices  with  a  generous 
hand. 

We  feasted  that  evening  as  on  nectar  and 
ambrosia  ;  and  not  the  least  delight  of  the  en- 
tertainment was  the  smile  of  gratification  with 
which  our  hostess  regarded  us,  as  we  satisfied 
our  famished  appetites  on  the  delicate  fare  she 
liberally  supplied.  Tea  over  and  the  tray  re- 
moved, she  a^gain  summoned  us  to  the  fire  ; 
we  sat  one  on  each  side  of  her,  and  now  a  con- 
versation followed  between  her  and  Helen, 
which  it  was  indeed  a  privilege  to  be  admitted 
to  hear. 

Miss  Temple  had  always  something  of  seren- 
ity in  her  air,  of  state  in  her  mien,  of  refined 
propriety  in  her  language,  which  precluded 
deviation  into  the  ardent,  the  excited,  the 
eager  ;  something  which  chastened  the  pleas- 
ure of  those  who  looked  on  her  and  listened  to 
her,  by  a  controlling  sense  of  awe ;  such  was 
my  feeling  now  :  but  as  to  Helen  Burns,  I  was 
struck  with  wonder. 

The  refre.shing  meal,  the  brilliant  fire,  the 
presence  and  kindness  of  her  beloved  instruct- 
ress, or  perhaps  more  than  all  these,  something 
in  her  own  unique  mind,  had  roused  her  powers 
within  her.  They  woke,  they  kindled  ;  first, 
they  glowed  in  the  bright  tint  of  her  cheek, 
which  till  this  hour  I  had  never  seen  but  pale 
and  bloodless  ;  then  they  shone  in  the  liquid 
luster  of  her  eyes,  which  had  suddenly  acquired 
a  beauty  more  singular  than  that  of  Miss  Tem- 
ple's— a  beauty  neither  of  fine  color,  nor  long 
eyelash,  nor  penciled  brow,  but  of  meaning,  of 
movement,  of  radiance.  Then  her  soul  sat  on 
her  lips,  and  language  flowed,  from  what  source 
I  can  not  tell.  Has  a  girl  of  fourteen  a  heart 
large  enough,  vigorous  enough  to  hold  the 
swelling  spring  of  pure,  full,  fervid  eloquence  ? 
Such  was  the  characteristic  of  Helen's  dis- 
course on  that,  to  me,  memorable  evening ; 
her  spirit  seemed  hastening  to  live  within  a 
very  brief  span  as  much  as  many  live  during  a 
protracted  existence. 

They  conversed  of  things  I  had  never  heard 
of;  of  nations  and  times  past;  of  countries  far 
away ;  of  secrets  of  nature  discovered  or 
guessed  at  ;  they  spoke  of  books  ;  how  many 
they  had  read !  '  What  stores  of  knowledge 
they  possessed !  Then  they  seemed  so  fa- 
miliar with  French  names  and  French  au- 
thors ;  but  my  amazement  reached  its  climax: 
when  Miss  Temple  asked  Helen  if  she  some- 
times snatched  a  moment  to  recall  the  Latin 
her  father  had  taught  her ;  and,  taking  a  book 
from  a  shelf,  hade  her  read  and  construe  a  page 
of  "Virgil ;"  and  Helen  obeyed,  my  organ  of 
yeneralion  expanding  at  every  sounding  line. 
She  had  scarcely  finished  ere  the  bell  announ- 
ced bed-lime;  no  delay  could  be  admitted; 
Miss  Temple  embraced  us  both,  saying  as  she 
drew  us  to  her  heart :  t 

"  God  bless  you,  my  children  '■'' 
Helen  she  held  a  little  longer  than  me  ,  she 

let  her  go  more  reluctantly  ;  it  was  Helen  her 
eye  followed  to  tho  door ;  it  was  for  her  she  » 


JANE  EYRE. 


second  time  breathed  a  sad  sigh  ;  for  her  she 
wiped  a  tear  from  her  cheek. 

On  reaching  the  bedroom,  we  heard  the 
voice  of  Miss  Scatcherd  ;  she  was  examining 
drawers  ;  she  had  just  pulled  out  Helen  Burns's, 
and  when  we  entered  Helen  was  greeted  with 
a  sharp  reprimand,  and  told  that  to-morrow  she 
should  have  half  a  dozen  of  untidy  folded  arti- 
cles pinned  to  her  shoulder. 

"My  things  were,  indeed,  in  shameful  disor- 
der," murmured  Helen  to  me,  in  a  low  voice  ; 
'♦  I  intended  to  have  arranged  them,  but  I  for- 
got." 

Next  morning,  Miss  Scatcherd  wrote  in  con- 
spicuous characters  on  a  piece  of  pasteboard 
the  word  "  Slattern,"  and  bound  it  like  a  phy- 
lactery round  Helen's  large,  mild,  intelligent, 
and  benign-looking  forehead.  She  wore  it  till 
evening,  patient,  unresentful,  regarding  it  as 
a  deserved  punishment.  The  moment  Miss 
Scatcherd  withdrew  after  afternoon-school,  I 
ran  to  Helen,  tore  it  off,  and  thrust  it  into  the 
fire  ;  the  fury  of  which  she  was  incapable  had 
been  burning  in  my  soul  all  day,  and  tears,  hot 
and  large,  had  continually  been  scalding  my 
cheek  ;  for  the  spectacle  of  her  sad  resignation 
gave  me  an  intolerable  pain  at  the  heart. 

About  a  week  subsequently  to  the  incidents 
above  narrated.  Miss  Temple,  who  had  written 
to  Mr.  Lloyd,  received  his  answer  :  it  appeared 
that  what  he  said  went  to  corroborate  my  ac- 
count. Miss  Temple,  having  assembled  the 
whole  school,  announced  that  inquiry  had  been 
made  into  the  charges  alleged  agamst  Jane 
Eyre,  and  that  she  was  most  happy  to  be  able 
^o  pronounce  her  completely  cleared  from  every 
imputation.  The  teachers  then  shook  hands 
with  me  and  kissed  me,  and  a  murmur  of 
pleasure  ran  through  the  ranks  of  my  com- 
panions. 

Thus  relieved  of  a  grievous  load,  I  from  that 
hour  set  to  work  afresh,  resolved  to  pioneer 
my  way  through  every  difficulty  ;  I  toiled  hard, 
and  my  success  was  proportionate  to  my  ef- 
forts ;  my  memory,  not  naturally  tenacious, 
improved  with  practice  ;  exercise  sharpened 
my  wits ;  in  a  few  weeks  I  was  promoted  to 
a  higher  class  ;  in  less  than  two  months  I  was 
allowed  to  commence  French  and  drawing. 
I  learned  the  first^two  tenses  of  the  verb  Etre, 
and  sketched  my  first  cottage  (whose  walls  hy- 
the-by,  outrivaled  in  slope  those  of  the  leaning 
tower  of  Pisa),  on  the  same  day.  That  night, 
on  going  to  bed,  I  forgot  to  prepare  in  imagina- 
tion the  Barmecide  supper  of  hot,  roast  pota- 
toes, or  white  bread  and  new  milk,  with  which 
I  was  wont  to  amuse  my  inward  cravings ;  I 
feasted,  instead,  on  the  spectacle  of  ideal  draw- 
ings which  I  saw  in  the  dark  ;  all  the  work  of 
my  own  hands  :  freely  penciled  houses  and 
trees,  picturesque  rocks  and  ruins,  Cuyp-like 
groups  of  cattle,  sweet  paintings  of  butterflies 
hovering  over  unblown  roses,  of  birds  picking 
at  ripe  cherries,  of  wrens'  nests  inclosing 
pearl-like  eggs,  wreathed  about  with  young  ivy 
sprays.  I  examined,  too,  in  thought,  the  pos- 
sibility of  my  ever  being  able  to  translate  cur- 
rently, a  certain  little  French  story-book  which 
Madam  Pierrot  had  that  day  shown  me  ;  nor 
was  that  problem  solved  to  my  satisfaction  ere 
I  fell  sweetly  asleep. 
Well  has  Solomon  said ;  "  Better  is  a  dinner 


of  herbs  where  love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox  and 
hatred  therewith." 

I  would  not  now  have  exchanged  Lowood, 
with  all  its  privations,  for  Gateshead  and  its 
daily  luxuries. 


CHAPTER  IX 

But  the  privations,  or,  rather,  the  hardships 
of  Lowood,  lessened.  Spring  drew  on ;  she 
^as,  indeed,  already  come  ;  the  frosts  of  win- 
ter had  ceased  ;  its  snows  were  melted ;  its 
cutting  winds  ameliorated.  My  wretched  feet, 
flayed  and  swelled  to  lameness  by  the  sharp  air 
of  January,  began  to  heal  and  subside  under  the 
gentler  breathings  of  April.  The  nights  and 
mornings  no  longer,  by  their  Canadian  temper- 
ature, froze  the  very  blood  in  our  veins;  we 
could  now  endure  the  play-hour  passed  in  the 
garden.  Sometimes,  on  a  sunny  day,  it  began 
even  to  be  pleasant  and  genial ;  and  a  green- 
ness grew  over  those  brown  beds  which,  fresh- 
ening daily,  suggested  the  thought  that  Hope 
traversed  them  at  night,  and  left  each  morning 
brighter  traces  of  her  steps.  Flowers  peeped 
out  among  the  leaves — snowdrops,  crocuses, 
purple  auriculas,  and  golden-eyed  pansies.  On 
Thursday  afternoons  (half  holydays)  we  now 
took  walks,  and  found  still  sweeter  flowers 
opening  by  the  wayside,  under  the  hedges. 

I  discovered,  too,  that  a  great  pleasure — an 
enjoyment  which  the  horizon  only  bounded — lay 
all  outside  the  high  and  spike-guarded  walls  of 
our  garden.  This  pleasure  consisted  in  a  pros- 
pect of  noble  summits  girdling  a  great  hill- 
hollow,  rich  in  verdure  and  shadow  ;  in  a  bright 
beck,  full  of  dark  stones  and  sparkling  eddies. 
How  different  had  this  scene  looked  when  I 
viewed  it  laid  out  beneath  the  iron  sky  of  win- 
ter, stiffened  in  frost,  shrquded  with  snow — 
when  mists  as  chill  as  death  wandered  to  the 
impulse  of  east  windS  along  those  purple  peaks, 
and  rolled  down  "  ing"  and  holm  till  they  blend- 
ed with  the  frozen  fog  of  the  beck  !  That  beck 
itself  was  then  a  torrent,  turbid  and  curbless  ; 
it  tore  asunder  the  wood,  and  sent  a  raving 
sound  through  the  air,  often  thickened  with 
wild  rain  or  whirhng  sleet ;  and  for  the  forest 
on  its  banks,  that  showed  only  ranks  of  skel- 
etons. 

'  -  April  advanced  to  May.  A  bright,  serene 
May  it  was ;  days  of  blue  sky,  placid  sun- 
shine, and  soft  western  or  southern  gales  filled 
up  its  duration.  And  now  vegetation  matured 
with  vigor  ;  Lowood  shook  loose  its  tresses  ;  it 
became  all  green,  all  flowery ;  its  great  elm,  ash, 
and  oak  skeletons  were  restored  to  majestic 
life  ;  woodland  plants  sprung  up  profusely  in 
its  recesses  ;  unnumbered  varieties  of  moss 
filled  its  hollows ;  and  it  made  a  strange 
ground-sunshine  out  of  the  wealth  of  its  wild 
primrose  plants ;  I  have  seen  their  pale,  gold 
gleam,' in  overshadowed  spots,  like  scatterings 
of  the  sweetest  luster.  All  this  I  enjoyed  often 
and  fully,  free,  unwatched,  and  almost  alone  ; 
for  ihis  unwonted  liberty  and  pleasure  there 
was  a  cause,  to  which  it  now  becomes  my  task 
to  advert. 

Have  I  not  described  a  pleasant  site  for  a 
dwelling,  when  I  speak  of  it  as  bosomed  in  hill 


30 


JANE  EYRE. 


and  wood,  and  rising  from  the  verge  of  a 
stream  1  Assuredly,  pleasant  enough ;  but 
whether  healthy  or  not  is  another  question. 

That  forest  dell,  where  Lowood  lay,  was  the 
cradle  of  fog  and  fog-bred  pestilence ;  which, 
quickening  with  the  quickening  spring,  crept 
into  the  Orphan  Asylum,  breathed  typhus 
through  its  crowded  §chool-room  and  dormi- 
tory, and,  ere  May  arrived,  transformed  the 
seminary  into  an  hospital. 

Semi-starvation  and  neglected  colds  had  pre- 
disposed most  of  the  pupils  to  receive  infection. 
Forty-five  out  of  the  eighty  girls  lay  ill  at  one 
time.  Classes  were  broken  up,  rules  relaxed. 
The  few  who  continued  well  were  allowed  al- 
most unlimited  license,  because  the  medical  at- 
tendant insisted  on  the  necessity  of  frequent 
exercise  to  keep  them  in  health  ;  and  had  it 
been  otherwise,  no  one  had  leisure  to  watch  or 
restrain  them.  Miss  Temple's  whole  attention 
was  absorbed  by  the  patients  ;  she  lived  in  the 
sick  room,  never  quitting  it  except  to  snatch  a 
few  hours'  rest  at  night.  The  teachers  were 
fully  occupied  with  packing  up  and  making  oth- 
er necessary  preparations  for  the  departure  of 
those  girls  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  have 
friends  and  relations  able  and  willing  to  remove 
them  from  the  seat  of  contagion.  Many,  al- 
ready smitten,  went  home  only  to  die  ;  some 
died  at  the  school,  and  were  buried  quietly  and 
quickly,  the  nature  of  the  malady  forbidding 
delay. 

While  disease  had  thus  become  an  inhabitant 
of  Lowood,  and  death  its  frequent  visitor  ;  while 
there  was  gloom  and  fear  within  its  walls ;  while 
its  rooms  and  passages  steamed  with  hospital 
smells — the  drug  and  the  paslile  striving  vainly 
to  overcome  the  effluvia  of  mortality — that 
bright  May  shone  unclouded  over  the  bold  hills 
and  beautiful  woodland  out-of-doors.  Its  gar- 
den, too,  glowed  with  flowers  ;  hollyhocks  had 
sprung  up  tall  as  trees,  lilies  had  opened,  dah- 
lias and  roses  were  in  bloom ;  the  borders  of 
the  little  beds  were  gay  with  pink  thrift  and 
crimson  double-daisies  ;  the  sweet-briers  gave 
out,  morning  and  evening,  their  scent  of  spice 
and  apples  ;  and  these  fragrant  treasures  were 
all  useless  for  most  of  the  inmates  of  Lowood, 
except  to  furnish  now  and  then  a  handful  of 
herbs  and  blossoms  to  put  in  a  coffin. 

But  I,  and  the  rest  who  continued  well,  en- 
joyed fully  the  beauties  of  the  scene  and  seas- 
on. They  let  us  ramble  in  the  wood,  like  gip- 
seys,  from  morning  till  night';  we  did  what  we 
liked — went  where  we  liked  ;  we  lived  better, 
too.  Mr.  Brocklehurst  and  his  family  never 
came  near  Lowood  now ;  household  matters 
were  not  scrutinized  into  ;  the  cross  house- 
keeper was  gone,  driven  away  by  the  fear  of 
infection ;  her  successor,  who  had  been  matron 
at  the  Lowton  Dispensary,  unused  to  the  ways 
of  her  new  abode,  provided  with  comparative 
liberality.  Besides,  there  were  fewer  to  feed  ; 
the  sick  could  eat  little  ;  our  breakfast-basins 
were  better  filled  ;  when  there  was  no  time  to 
prepare  a  regular  dinner,  which  often  happened, 
she  would  give  us  a  large  piece  of  cold  pie,  or 
a  thick  slice  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  this  we 
carried  away  with  us  to  the  wood,  where  we 
each  chose  the  spot  we  liked  best,  and  dined 
sumptuously. 
My  favorite  seat  was  a  smooth  and  broad 


stone,  rising  white  and  dry  from  the  very  mid- 
dle of  the  beck,  and  only  to  be  got  at  by  wading 
through  the  water — a  feat  I  accomplished  bare- 
foot. The  stone  was  just  broad  enough  to  ac- 
commodate comfortably  me  and  another  girl — 
at  that  time  my  chosen  comrade — one  Mary 
Ann  Wilson,  a  sljrewd,  observant  personage, 
whose  society  I  took  pleasure  in,  partly  because 
she  was  witty  and  original,  and  partly  because 
she  had  a  manner  which  set  me  at  my  ease. 
Some  years  older  than  I,  she  knew  more  of  the 
world,  and  could  tell  me  many  things  I  liked  to 
hear.  With  her  my  curiosity  found  gratifica- 
tion. To  my  faults,  also,  she  gave  ample  in- 
dulgence, never  imposing  curb  or  rein  on  any 
thing  I  said.  She  had  a  turn  for  narrative — I 
for  analysis ;  she  liked  to  inform — I  to  ques- 
tion ;  so  Y-e  got  on  swimmingly  together,  de- 
riving much  entertainment,  if  not  much  im- 
provement, from  our  mutual  intercourse. 

And  where,  meantime,  was  Helen  Burns  T 
Why  did  I  not  spend  these  sweet  days  of  liber- 
ty with  herl  Had  I  forgotten  herl  or  was  I 
so  worthless  as  to  have  grown  tired  of  her  pure 
society  1  Surely  the  Mary  Ann  Wilson  I  have 
mentioned  was  inferior  to  my  first  acquaint- 
ance ;  she  could  only  tell  me  amusing  stories, 
and  reciprocate  any  racy  and  pungent  gossip  I 
chose  to  indulge  in  ;  while,  if  I  have  spoken 
truth  of  Helen,  she  was  qualified  to  give  those 
who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  her  converse  a 
taste  of  far  higher  things. 

True,  reader,  and  I  knew  and  felt  this ;  and 
though  I  am  a  defective  being,  with  many  faults 
and  few  redeeming  points,  yet  I  never  tired  of 
Helen  Burns,  nor  ever  ceased  to  cherish  for  her 
a  sentiment  of  attachment  as  strong,  tender, 
and  respectful  as  any  that  ever  animated  my 
heart.  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  when  Helen, 
at  all  times  and  under  all  circumstances,  evinced 
for  me  a  quiet  and  faithful  friendship,  which 
ill-humor  never  soured  nor  irritation  ever  trou- 
bled ■!  But  Helen  was  ill  at  present ;  for  some 
weeks  she  had  been  removed  from  my  sight  to 
I  knew  not  what  room,  up  stairs.  She  was  not, 
I  was  told,  in  the  hospital  portion  of  the  house 
with  the  fever  patients  ;  for  her  complaint  was 
consumption,  not  typhus  ;  and  by  consumption 
I,  in  my  ignorance,  understood  something  mild, 
which  time  and  care  would  be  sure  to  alle- 
viate. 

I  was  confirmed  in  this  idea  by  the  fact  of 
her  once  or  twice  coming  down  stairs  on  very 
warm,  sunny  afternoons,  and  being  taken  by 
Miss  Temple  into  the  garden  ;  but,  on  these  oc- 
casions, I  was  not  allowed  to  go  and  speak  to 
her  ;  I  only  saw  her  from  the  school-room  win- 
dow, and  then  not  distinctly,  for  she  was  much 
wrapped,  up,  and  sat  at  a  distance  under  the 
verandah. 

One  evening,  in  the  beginning  of  June,  I  had 
stayed  out  very  late  with  Mary  Ann  in  the 
wood  ;  we  had,  as  usual,  separated  ourselves 
from  the  others,  and  had  wandered  far — so  far 
that  we  lost  our  way,  and  had  to  ask  it  at  a 
lonely  cottage,  where  a  man  and  woman  lived, 
who  looked  after  a  herd  of  half-wild  swine  that 
fed  on  the  mast  in  the  wood.  When  we  got 
hack,  it  was  after  moonrise  ;  a  pony,  which  we 
knew  to  be  the  surgeon's,  was  standing  at  the 
garden-door.  Mary  Ann  remarked,  that  she 
supposed  some  one  must  be  very  ill,  as  Mr. 


JANE  EYRE. 


3t 


Bates  had  been  sent  for  at  that  time  of  the 
evening.  She  went  into  the  house.  I  stayed 
behind  a  few  minutes  to  plant  in  my  garden  a 
handful  of  roots  I  had  dug  up  in  the  forest,  and 
which  I  feared  would  wither  if  I  left  them  till 
morning.  This  done,  I  lingered  yet  a  little 
longer ;  the  flowers  smelled  so  sweet  as  the 
dew  fell ;  it  was  such  a  pleasant  evening,  so 
serene,  so  warm ;  the  still  glowing  west  prom- 
ised so  fairly  another  fine  day  on  the  morrow  ; 
the  moon  rose  with  such  majesty  in  the  grave 
east.  I  was  noting  these  things,  and  enjoying 
them  as  a  child  might,  when  it  entered  my 
mind,  as  it  had  never  done  before  : 

"  How  sad  to  be  lying  now  on  a  sick  bed,  and 
to  be  in  danger  of  dying  !  This  world  is  pleas- 
ant ;  it  would  be  dreary  to  be  called  from  it,  and 
to  have  to  go — who  knows  where  1" 

And  then  my  mind  made  its  first  earnest  ef- 
fort to  comprehend  what  had  been  infused  into 
it  concerning  heaven  and  hell,  and  for  the  first 
time  it  recoiled,  baffled ;  and,  for  the  first  time, 
glancing  behind,  on  each  side,  and  before  it,  it 
saw  all  round  an  unfathomed  gulf;  it  felt  the 
one  point  where  it  stood — the  present ;  all  the 
rest  was  formless  cloud  and  vacant  depth,  and 
it  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  tottering,  and 
plunging  amid  that  chaos.  While  pondering 
this  new  idea,  I  heard  the  front  door  open  ;  Mr. 
Bates  came  out,  and  with  him  was  a  nurse. 
After  she  had  seen  him  mount  his  horse  and 
depart,  she  was  about  to  close  the  door,  but  I 
ran  up  to  her. 

"  How  is  Helen  Burns  1" 
"  Very  poorly,"  was  the  answer. 
"  Is  it  her  Mr.  Bates  has  been  to  see  V 
"Yes." 

"And  what  does  he  say  about  herl" 
"He  says  she'll  not  be  here  long." 
This  phrase,  uttered  in  my  hearing  yesterday, 
would  have  only  conveyed  the  notion  that  she 
was  about  to  be  removed  to  Northumberland, 
to  her  own  home.  I  should  not  have  suspected 
that  meant  she  was  dying  ;  but  I  knew  instant- 
ly now ;  it  opened  clear  on  my  comprehension 
that  Helen  Burns  was  numbering  her  last  days 
in  this  world,  and  that  she  was  going  to  be 
taken  to  the  region  of  spirits,  if  such  region 
there  were.  I  experienced  a  shock  of  horror, 
then  a  strong  thrill  of  grief,  then  a  desire — a 
necessity — to  see  her ;  and  I  asked  in  what 
room  she  lay. 

"  She  is  in  Miss  Temple's  room,"  said  the 
nurse. 

"May  1  go  up  and  speak  to  her?" 
"  Oh,  no,  child  !     It  is  not  likely  :  and  now  it 
is  time  for  you  to  come-  in  ;  you'll  catch  the 
fever  if  you  stop  out  when  the  dew  is  falling." 

The  nurse  closed  the  front  door  ;  I  went  in 
by  the  side  entrance  which  led  to  the  school- 
room ;  I  was  just  in  time  ;  it  was  nine  o'clock, 
and  Miss  Miller  was  calling  the  pupils  to  go  to 
bed. 

It  might  be  two  hours  later,  probably  near 
eleven,  when  I — not  having  been  able  to  fall 
asleep,  and  deeming,  from  the  perfect  silence 
of  the  dormitory,  that  my  companions  were  all 
wrapped  in  profound  repose — rose  softly,  put 
on  my  frock  over  my  night-dress,  and,  without 
shoes,  crept  from  the  apartment,  and  set  off  in 
quest  of  Miss  Temple's  room.  It  was  quite  at 
the  other  end  of  the  house ;   but  I  knew  my 


way ;  and  the  light  of  the  unclouded  summer 
moon,  entering  here  and  there  at  passage  win- 
dows, enabled  me  to  find  it  without  difficulty. 
An  odor  of  camphor  and  burned  vinegar  warned 
me  when  I  came  near  the  fever  room  ;  and  I 
passed  its  door  quickly,  fearful  lest  the  nurse 
who  sat  up  all  night  should  hear  me.  I  dreaded 
being  discovered  and  sent  back  ;  for  I  must  see 
Helen — I  must  embrace  her  before  she  died — I 
must  give  her  one  last  kiss,  exchange  with  her 
one  last  word. 

Having  descended  a  stair-case,  traversed  a 
portion  of  the  house  below,  and  succeeded  in 
opening  and  shutting,  without  noise,  two  doors, 
I  reached  another  flight  of  steps ;  these  I  mount- 
ed, and  then  just  opposite  to  me  was  Miss  Tem-  • 
pie's  room.  A  light  shone  through  the  key- 
hole, and  from  under  the  door :  a  profound 
stillness  pervaded  the  vicinity.  Coming  near, 
I  found  the  door  slightly  ajar  ;  probably  to  admit 
some  fresh  air  into  the  close  abode  of  sickness. 
Indisposed  to  hesitate,  and  full  of  impatient 
impulses — soul  and  senses  quivering  with  keen 
throes — I  put  it  back  and  looked  in.  My  eye 
sought  Helen,  and  feared  to  find  death. 

Close  by  Miss  Temple's  bed,  and  half  covered 
with  its  white  curtains,  there  stood  a  little  crib. 
I  saw  the  outline  of  a  form  under  the  clothes, 
but  the  face  was  hid  by  the  hangings  :  the  nurse 
I  had  spoken  to  in  the  garden  sat  in  an  easy 
chair,  asleep  ;  an  unsnufl^ed  candle  burned  dimly 
on  the  table.  Miss  Temple  was  not  to  be  seen : 
I  knew  afterward  that  she  had  been  called  to 
a  delirious  patient  in  the  fever-room.  I  ad- 
vanced ;  then  paused  by  the  crib  side  :  my  hand 
was  on  the  curtain,  but  I  preferred  speaking 
before  I  withdrew  it.  I  still  recoiled  at  the 
dread  of  seeing  a  corpse. 

"  Helen  !"  I  whispered  softly  ;  "  are  you 
awake  1" 

She  stirred,  herself  put  back  the  curtain,  and 
I  saw  her  face,  pale,  wasted,  but  quite  com- 
posed ;  she  looked  so  little  changed  that  my 
fear  was  instantly  dissipated. 

"  Can  it  be  you,  Jane  1"  she  asked  in  her  owq 
gentle  voice. 

"Oh!"  I  thought,  "she  is  not  going  to  die; 
they  are  mistaken  :  she  could  not  speak  and 
look  so  calmly  if  she  were." 

I  got  on  to  her  crib  and  kissed  her :  her  fore- 
head was  cold,  and  her  cheek  both  cold  and 
thin,  and  so  were  her  hand  and  wrist ;  but  she 
smiled  as  of  old. 

"  Why  are  you  come  here,  Jane  1  It  is  past 
eleven  o'clock  ;  I  heard  it  strike  some  minutes 
since." 

"  I  came  to  see  you,  Helen  ;  I  heard  you 
were  very  ill,  and  I  could  not  sleep  till  I  had 
spoken  to  you."  ^ 

"  You  came  to  bid  me  good-by,  then  ;  you  are 
just  in  time,  probably." 

"  Are  you  going  somewhere,  Helen  ^  Are 
you  going  homel" 

"  Yes  ;  to  my  long  home — my  last  home." 

"No.  no,  Helen."  I  stopped,  distressed. 
While  I  tried  to  devour  my  tears,  a  fit  of  cough- 
ing seized  Helen  ;  it  did  not,  however,  wake 
the  nurse ;  when  it  was  over,  she  lay  some 
minutes  exhausted  ;  then  she  whispered — 

"  Jane,  your  little  feet  are  bare  ;  lie  dowa 
and  cover  yourself  with  my  quilt." 

I  did  so  ;  she  put  her  arm  over  nie,  and  f 


33 


JANE  EYRE. 


nestled  close  to  her.  After  a  long  silence,  she 
resumed ;  still  whispering— 

"  I  am  very  happy,  Jane  ;  and  when  you  hear 
that  I  am  dead  you  must  be  sure  and  not  grieve  ; 
there  is  nothing  to  grieve  about.  We  all  must 
die  one  day,  and  the  illness  which  is  removing 
me  is  not  painful ;  it  is  gentle  and  gradual ;  my 
mind  is  at  rest.  I  leave  no  one  to  regret  me 
much  ;  I  have  only  a  father  ;  and  he  is  lately 
married,  and  will  not  miss  me.  By  dying  young 
I  shall  escape  great  sufferings.  I  had  not  qual- 
ities or  talents  to  make  my  way  very  well  in 
the  world  ;  I  should  have  been  continually  at 
fault." 

"  But  where  are  you  going  to,  Helen  ?  Can 
,      you  see  ]    Do  you  know  !" 

"  I  believe  ;  I  have  faith ;  I  am  going  to 
Ood." 

"  Where  is  God  1     What  is  God  V> 

"  My  maker  and  yours ;  who  will  never  dcr 
slroy  what  he  created.  I  rely  implicitly  on  his 
power,  and  confide  wholly  in  his  goodness ;  I 
count  the  hours  till  that  eventful  one  arrives 
which  shall  restore  me  to  him,  reveal  him  to 
me." 

"  You  are  sure,  then.  Helen,  that  there  is 
such  a  place  as  heaven  ;  and  that  our  souls  can 
get  to  it  when  we  die  1" 

"  I  am  sure  there  is  a  future  state ;  1  believe 
God  is  good  ;  I  can  resign  my  immortal  part  to 
him  without  any  misgiving.  God  is  my  father  ; 
God  is  my  friend  ;  I  love  him  ;  I  believe  he 
loves  me." 

"  And  shall  I  see  you  again,  Helen,  when  I 
dieV 

"  You  will  come  to  the  same  region  of  happi- 
ness ;  he  received  by  the  same  mighty,  univer- 
sal Parent,  no  doubt,  dear  Jane." 

Again  I  questioned  ;  but  this  time  only  in 
thought.  "  Where  is  that  region  1  >  Does  it 
exist  ?"  And  I  clasped  my  arms  closer  round 
Helen  ;  she  seemed  dearer  to  me  than  ever ;  I 
felt  as  if  I  could  not  let  her  go  ;  I  lay  with  my 
face  hidden  on  her  neck.  Presently  she  said, 
in  the  sweetest  tone — 

"  How  comfortable  I  am  !  That  last  fit  of 
coughing  has  tired  me  a  little  ;  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  .sleep ;  but  don't  leave  me,  Jane  ;  I  like 
to  have  you  near  me." 

"  I'll  stay  with  you,  dear  Helen ;  no  one  shall 
take  me  away." 

"Are  you  warm,  darling V  * 

"Yes." 

"  Good-night,  Jane." 

"  Good-night,  Helen." 

She  kissed  me,  and  I  her ;  and  we  both  soon 
slumbered. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  day :  an  unusual  move- 
ment roused  me  ;  I  looked  up ;  I  was  in  some- 
body's arms  ;  the  nurse  held  me ;  she  was 
carrying  me  through  the  passage  back  to  the 
dormitory.  I  was  not  reprimanded  for  leaving 
my  bed ;  people  had  something  else  to  think 
about :  no  explanation  was  afforded  then  to  my 
many  questions ;  but  a  day  or  two  afterward  I 
learned  that  Miss  Temple,  on  returning  to  her 
own  room  at  dawn,  had  found  me  laid  in  the  lit- 
tle crib ;  my  face  against  Ellen  Burns's  shoulder, 
my  arras  round  her  neck.  I  was  asleep,  and 
Helen  was — dead. 

Her  grave  is  in  Brocklebridge  church-yard ; 
for  fifteen  years  after  her  death  it  was  only 


covered  by  a  grassy  mound ;  but  now  a  gray 
marble  tablet  marks  the  spot,  inscribed  with  her 
name,  and  the  word  "  Resurgam." 


CHAPTER  X. 


Hitherto  I  have  recorded  in  detail  the  events 
of  my  insignificant  existence  :  to  the  first  ten 
years  of  my  life,  I  have  given  almost  as  many 
chapters.  But  this  is  not  to  be  a  regular  auto- 
biography ;  I  am  only  bound  to  invoke  memory 
where  I  know  her  responses  will  possess  some 
degree  of  interest ;  therefore  1  now  pass  a  space 
of  eight  years  almost  in  silence :  a  few  lines 
only  are  necessary  to  keep  up  the  links  of  con- 
nection. 

When  the  typhus  fever  had  fulfilled  its  mis- 
sion of  devastation  at  Lowood,  it  gradually  dis- 
appeared from  thence  ;  but  not  till  its  virulence 
and  the  number  of  its  victims  had  drawn  public ' 
attention  on  the  school.  Inquiry  was  made 
into  the  origin  of  the  scourge,  and  by  degrees 
various  facts  came  out  which  excited  public 
indignation  in  a  high  degree.  The  unhealthy 
nature  of  the  site  ;  the  quantity  and  quality  of 
the  children's  food ;  the  brackish,  fetid  water 
used  in  its  preparation  ;  the  pupils'  wretched 
clothing  and  accommodations,  all  these  things 
were  discovered  ;  and  the  discovery  produced  a 
result  mortifying  to  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  but  bene- 
ficial to  the  institution. 

Several  wealthy  and  benevolent  individuals 
in  the  county  subscribed  largely  for  the  erection 
of  a  more  convenient  building  in  a  better  situa- 
tion ;  new  regulations  were  made  ;  improve- 
ments in  diet  and  clothing  introduced  ;  the" 
funds  of  the  school  were  intrusted  to  the  man- 
agement of  a  committee.  Mr.  Brocklehurst, 
who,  from  his  wealth  and  family  connections, 
could  not  be  overlooked,  still  retained  the  post 
of  treasurer  ;  but  he  was  aided  in  the  discharge 
of  his  duties  by  gentlemen  of  rather  more  en- 
larged and  sympathizing  minds  ;  his  office  of 
.inspector,  too,  was  shared  by  those  who  knew 
how  to  combine  reason  with  strictness,  comfort 
with  economy,  compassion  with  uprightness. 
The  school,  thus  improved,  became  in  time  a 
truly  useful  and  noble  institution.  I  remained 
an  imnate  of  its  walls,  after  its  regeneration,  for 
eight  years — six  as  pupil,  and  two  as  teacher  ; 
and  in  both  capacities  I  bear  my  testimony  to 
its  value  and  importance. 

During  these  eight  years  my  life  was  uniform  : 
but  not  unhappy,  because  it  was  not  inactive. 
I  had  the  means  of  aa excellent  education  placed 
within  my  reach ;  a  fondness  for  some  of  my 
studies  and  a  desire  to  excel  in  all,  together 
with  a  great  delight  in  pleasing  my  teachers, 
especially  such  as  I  loved,  urged  me  on  ;  I 
availed  myself  fully  of  the  advantages  offered 
me.  In  time  I  rose  to  be  the  first  girl  of  the 
first  class  ;  thep  I  was  invested  with  the  ottice 
of  teacher  ;  which  I  discharged  with  zeal  for 
two  years  :  but  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  altered. 

Miss  Temple,  through  all  changes,  had  thus 
far  continued  superintondont  of  the  seminary; 
to  her  instruction  I  out  tl  the  best  part  of  my 
acquirements  ;  her  friemiship  and  .-society  had 
been  my  continual  solace  ;  she  hml  stood  me 
in  the  stead  of  motUw;  governess,  and,  latterly 


i 


JANE  EYRE. 


33 


companion,  At  this  period  she  married,  re- 
moved with  her  husband  (a  clergyman,  an  ex- 
cellent man,  almost  worthy  of  such  a  wife)  to 
a  distant  county,  and,  consequently,  was  lost 
to  me. 

From  the  day  she  left  I  was  no  longer  the 
same  :  with  her  was  gone  every  settled  feeling, 
every  association  that  had  made  Lowood  in 
some  degree  a  home  to  me.  I  had  imbibed  from 
•  her  something  of  her  nature  and  much  of  her 
habits  :  more  harmonious  thoughts  ;  what 
seemed  better  regulated  feelings  had  become 
the  inmates  of  my  mind.  I  had  given  in  alle- 
giance to  duty  and  order ;  I  v.'as  quiet  ;  I  be- 
lieved I  was  content ;  to  the  eyes  of  others, 
usually  even  to  my  own,  I  appeared  a  disci- 
plined and  subdued  character. 

But  destiny,  in  the  shape  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Na- 
smyth,  came  between  me  and  Miss  Temple  ;  I 
saw  her  in  her  traveling-dress  step  into  a  post- 
chaise,  shortly  after  the  marriage  ceremony,  I 
watched  the  chaise  mount  the  hill  and  disap- 
pear beyond  its  brow,  and  then  retired  to  my 
own  room,  and  there  spent  in  solitude  the 
greatest  part  of  the  half-holyday  granted  in  hon- 
or of  the  occasion. 

I  walked  about  the  chamber  most  of  the  time. 
I  imagined  myself  only  to  be  regretting  my  loss 
and  thinking  how  to  repair  it ;  but  when  my  re- 
flections were  concluded,  and  I  looked  up  and 
found  that  the  afternoon  was  gone,  and  evening 
far  advanced,  another  discovery  dawned  on 
me ;  namely,  that  in  the  interval  I  had  under- 
gone a  transforming  process  ;  that  my  mind 
had  put  off  all  it  had  borrowed  of  Miss  Tem- 
ple, or,  rather,  that  she  had  taken  with  her  the 
serene  atmosphere  I  had  been  breathing  in  her 
vicinity,  and  that  now  I  was  left  in  my  natural 
element,  and  beginning  to  feel  the  stirring  of 
old  emotions.  It  did  not  seem  as  if  a  prop  were 
withdrawn,  but  rather  as  if  a  motive  were  gone ; 
it  was  not  the  power  to  he  tranquil  vs'hich  had 
failed  me,  but  the  reason  for  tranquillity  was  no 
more.  My  world  had  for  some  years  been  in 
Lowood  ;  my  experience  had  been  of  its  rules 
aifd  systems  ;  now  I  remembered  that  the  real 
I  world  was  wide,  and  that  a  varied  field  of  hopes 
land  fears,  of  sensations  and  excitements, 
iwaited  those  who  had  courage  to  go  forth  into 
?ts  expanse  to  seek  real  knowledge  of  life  amid 
its  perils. 

I  went  to  my  window,  opened  it,  and  looked 
out.  There  were  the  two  wings  of  the  build- 
ing ;  there  was  the  garden ;  there  were  the 
skirts  of  Lov/ood  ;  there  was  the  hilly  horizon. 
My  eye  passed  all  other  objects  to  rest  on  those 
most  remote,  the  blue  peaks  ;  it  was  those  I 
longed  to  surmount ;  all  within  their  boundary 
of  rock  and  heath  seemed  prison-ground,  exile 
limits.  I  traced  the  white  road  winding  round 
the  base  of  one  mountain,  and  vanishing  in  a 
gorge  between  two  :  how  I  longed  to  follow  it 
further !  I  recalled  the  time  when  I  had  trav- 
eled that  very  road  in  a  coach  ;  I  remembered 
descending  that  hill  at  twilight :  an  age  seemed 
to  have  elapsed  since  the  day  which  brought 
'me  first  to  Lowood  ;  and  I  had  never  quitted  it 
since.  My  vacations  had  all  been  spent  at 
school ;  Mrs.  Reed  had  never  sent  for  me  to 
Gateshead  ;  neither  she  nor  any  of  her  family 
had  ever  been  to  visit  me.  I  had  had  no  com- 
munication by  letter  or  message  with  the  outer 
C 


world ;  school  rules,  school  duties,  school  hab- 
its and  notions,  and  voices,  and  faces,  and  phra- 
ses, and  costumes,  and  preferences,  and  antip- 
athies ;  such  was  what  I  knew  of  existence. 
And  now  I  felt  that  it  was  not  enough.  I  tired 
of  the  routine  of  eight  years  in  one  afternoon. 
I  desired  liberty ;  for  liberty  I  gasped ;  for  lib- 
erty I  uttered  a  prayer  ;  it  seemed  scattered  on 
the  wind  then  faintly  blowing.  I  abandoned  it, 
and  framed  an  humbler  supplication ;  for  change, 
stimulus  ;  that  petition,  too,  seemed  swept  off 
into  vague  space.  "  Then,"  I  cried,  half  despe- 
rate, "  grant  me,  at  least,  a  new  servitude  !" 

Here  a  bell,  ringing  the  hour  of  supper,  call- 
ed me  down  stairs. 

I  was  not  free  to  resume  the  interrupted 
chain  of  my  reflections  till  bed-time  ;  even  then 
a  teacher  who  occupied  the  same  room  with  me 
kept  me  from  the  subject  to  which  I  longed  to 
recur,  by  a  prolonged  effusion  of  small  talk. 
How  I  wished  sleep  would  silence  her !  It 
seemed  as  if,  could  I  but  go  back  to  the  idea 
which  had  last  entered  my  mind  as  I  stood  at 
the  window,  some  inventive  suggestion  would 
rise  for  relief 

Miss  Gryce  snored  at  last ;  she  was  a  heavy 
Welshwoman,  and  till  now  her  habitual  nasal 
strains  had  never  been  regarded  by  me  in  any 
other  light  than  as  a  nuisance  ;  to-night  I  hailed 
the  first  deep  notes  with  satisfaction ;  I  was 
debarrassed  of  interruption ;  my  half-effaced 
thought  instantly  revived. 

"A  new  servitude  !  There  is  something  in 
that,"  I  soliloquized  (mentally,  be  it  under- 
stood ;  I  did  not  talk  aloud).  "  I  know  there 
is,  because  it  does  not  sound  too  sweet ;  it  is 
not  like  such  words  as  Liberty,  Excitement, 
Enjoyment :  delightful  sounds,  truly  ;  but  no 
more  than  sounds  for  me ;  and  so  hollow  and 
fleeting  that  it  is  mere  waste  of  time  to  listen 
to  them.  But  Servitude )  that  must  be  matter 
of  fact.  Any  one  may  serve  :  I  have  served 
here  eight  years  ;  now  all  I  want  is  to  serve 
elsewhere.  Can  I  not  get  so  much  of  my  own 
will  1  Is  not  the  thing  feasible  ]  Yes,  yes ; 
the  end  is  not  so  difficult,  if  I  had  only  a  brain 
active  enough  to  ferret  out  the  means  of  at- 
taining it." 

I  sat  up  in  bed  by  way  of  arousing  this  said 
brain  ;  it  was  a  chilly  night ;  I  covered  my 
shoulders  with  a  shawl,  and  then  I  proceeded  to 
think  again  with  all  my  might. 

"  What  do  I  want^  A  new  place,  in  a  new 
house,  among  new  faces,  under  new  circum- 
stances; I  want  this  because  it  is  of  no  use  want- 
ing any  thing  better.  How  do  people  do  to  get 
a  new  place  ?  They  apply  to  friends,  I  suppose  : 
I  have  no  friends.  There  are  many  others  who 
have  no  friends,  who  must  look  about  for  them- 
selves and  be  their  cv.n  helpers  ;  and  what  is 
their  resourced' 

I  could  not  tell ;  nothing  answered  me ;  I 
then  ordered  my  brain  to  find  a  response,  and 
quickly.  It  worked  and  worked  faster ;  I  felt 
the  pulses  throb  in  my  head  and  temples ;  but 
for  nearly  an  hour  it  worked  in  chaos,  and  no 
result  came  of  its  efforts.  Feverish  with  vain 
labor,  I  got  up  and  took  a  turn  in  the  room; 
undrew  the  curtain,  noted  a  star  or  two,  shiv- 
ered with  cold,  and  again  crept  to  bed. 

A  kind  fairy,  in  my  absence,  had  surely  drop 
ped  the  required  suggestion  oa  my  pillow ;  for 


34 


JANE  EYRE. 


as  I  lay  down  it  came  quietly  and  naturally  to 
my  mind  :  "  Those  who  want  situations  adver- 
tise:   you    must   advertise   in    the    shire 

Herald." 

"  Howl     I  know  nothing  about  advertising." 

Replies  rose  smooth  and  prompt  now  : 

"You  must  inclose  the  advertisement  and 
the  money  to  pay  for  it  under  a  cover  directed 
to  the  Editor  of  the  Herald ;  you  must  put  it, 
the  first  opportunity  you  have,  into  the  post  at 
Lowton ;  answers  must  be  addressed  to  J.  E. 
at  the  post-office  there ;  you  can  go  and  in- 
quire in  about  a  week  after  you  send  your  let- 
ter, if  any  are  come,  and  act  accordingly." 

This  scheme  I  went  over  twice,  thrice ;  it 
■was  then  digested  in  my  mind  ;  I  had  it  in  a 
clear,  practical  form  ;  1  felt  satisfied,  and  fell 
asleep. 

With  earliest  day,  I  was  up.  I  had  my  ad- 
vertisement written,  inclosed,  and  directed  be- 
fore the  bell  rung  to  rouse  the  school ;  it  ran 
thus  : 

"  A  young  lady  accustomed  to  tuition  (had  I 
not  been  a  teacher  two  years])  is  desirous  of 
meeting  with  a  situation  in  a  private  family 
■where  the  children  are  under  fourteen  (I  thought 
that  as  I  was  barely  eighteen,  it  would  not  do 
to  undertake  the  guidance  of  pupils  nearer  my 
own  age).  She  is  qualified  to  teach  the  usual 
branches  of  a  good  English  education,  together 
with  French,  drawing,  and  music  (in  those  days, 
reader,  this,  now  narrow  catalogue  of  accom- 
plishments, would  have  been  held  tolerably 
comprehensive).  Address  J.  E.,  Post-office, 
Lowton, shire." 

This  document  remained  locked  in  my  draw- 
er all  day  ;  after  tea,  I  asked  leave  of  the  new 
superintendent  to  go  to  Lowton,  in  order  to  per- 
form some  small  commissions  for  myself  and 
one  or  two  of  my  fellow-teachers  ;  permission 
was  readily  granted  ;  I  went.  It  was  a  walk 
of  two  miles,  and  the  evening  was  wet,  but  the 
days  were  still  long ;  I  visited  a  shop  or  two, 
slipped  the  letter  into  the  post-office,  and  came 
back  through  heavy  rain,  with  streaming  gar- 
ments, but  with  a  relieved  heart. 

The  succeeding  week  seemed  long:  it  came 
to  an  end  at  last,  however,  like  all  sublunary 
things,  and  once  more,  toward  the  close  of  a 
pleasant  autumn  day,  I  found  myself  afoot  on 
the  road  to  Lowton.  A  picturesque  track  it 
was,  by  the  way ;  lying  along  the  side  of  the 
beck  and  through  the  sweetest  curves  of  the 
dale  ;  but  that  day  I  thought  more  of  the  letters, 
that  might  or  might  not  be  awaiting  me  at  the 
little  burgh  whither  I  was  bound,  than  of  the 
charms  of  lea  and  water. 

My  ostensible  errand  on  this  occasion  was  to 
get  measured  for  a  pair  of  shoes;  so  I  dis- 
charged that  business  first,  and  when  it  was 
done  I  stepped  across  the  clean  and  quiet  little 
street  from  the  shoemaker's  to  the  post-office  : 
it  was  kept  hy  an  old  dame,  who  wore  horn 
spectacles  on  her  nose,  and  black  mittens  on 
her  hands. 

"  Are  there  any  letters  for  J.  E.  1"  I  asked. 

She  peered  at  me  over  her  spectacles,  and 
then  she  opened  a  drawer,  and  fumbled  among 
its  contents  for  a  long  time  ;  so  long  that  my 
hopes  began  to  falter.  At  last,  having  held  a 
documoni  before  her  glasses  for  nearly  five 
minutes,  she  presented  it  across  the  counter. 


accompanying  the  act  by  another  inquisitive  and' 
mistrustful  glance — it  was  for  J.  E. 

"Is there  only  one?"  I  demanded. 

"There  are  no  more,"  said  she  ;  and  I  put 
it  in  my  pocket  and  turned  my  face  homeward  ; 
I  could  not  open  it  then :  rules  obhged  me  to  be 
back  by  eight,  and  it  was  already  half-past 
seven. 

Various  duties  awaited  me  on  my  arrival  ;  I 
had  to  sit  with  the  girls  during  their  hour  of 
study  ;  then  it  was  my  turn  to  read  prayers, 
to  see  them  to  bed  ;  afterward  I  supped  with 
the  other  teachers.  Even  when  we  finally  re- 
tired for  the  night,  the  inevitable  Miss  Gryce 
was  still  my  companion ;  we  had  only  a  short 
end  of  candle  in  our  candlestick,  and  I  dreaded 
lest  she  should  talk  till  it  was  all  burned  out ; 
fortunately,  however,  the  heavy  supper  she  had 
eaten  produced  a  soporific  eflTect ;  she  was  al- 
ready snoring,  before  I  had  finished  undressing. 
There  still  remained  an  inch  of  candle;  I  now 
took  out  my  letter,  the  seal  was  an  initial  F.  ; 
I  broke  it,  the  contents  were  brief 

"If  J.  E.,  who  advertised  in  the shire 

Herald  of  last  Thursday  possesses  the  acquire- 
ments mentioned,  and  if  she  is  in  a  position 
to  give  satisfactory  references  as  to  character 
and  competency,  a  situation  can  be  offisred 
her  where  there  is  but  one  pupil,  a  little  girl, 
under  ten  years  of  age  ;  and  where  the  salary 
is  thirty  pounds  per  annum.  J.  E.  is  request- 
ed to  send  references,  name,  address,  and  all 
particulars  to  the  direction  ; 

"  Mrs.    Fairfax,    Thornfield,   near    Millcote, 
shire. 


I  examined  the  document  long ;  the  writing 
was  old-fashioned  and  rather  uncertain,  like 
that  of  an  elderly  lady.  This  circumstance 
was  satisfactory  ;  a  private  fear  had  haunted 
me  that,  in  thus  acting  for  myself  and  by  ray 
own  guidance,  I  ran  the  risk  of  getting  into 
some  scrape ;  and,  above  all  things,  I  wished 
the  result  of  my  endeavors  to  be  respectable, 
proper,  en  regie.  J  now  felt  that  an  elderly  lady 
was  no  bad  ingredient  in  the  business  I  had  on 
hand.  Mrs.  Fairfax !  I  saw  her  in  a  black 
gown  and  widow's  cap  ;  frigid,  perhaps,  but 
not  uncivil;  a  model  of  elderly  English  re-^ 
spectability.  Thornfield  !  that,  doubtless,  was  " 
the  name  of  her  house,  a  neat,  orderly  spot,  I 
was  sure  ;  though  I  failed  in  my  effiaris  to  con- 
ceive a  correct  plan  of  the  premises.  Mill- 
cote,   shire  ;  I  brushed  up  my  recollections 

of  the  map  of  England  ;  yes,  I  saw  it,  both  the 

shire  and  the  town.     shire  was  seventy 

miles  nearer  London  than  the  remote  county 
where  I  now  resided  ;  that  was  a  recommend- 
ation to  me.  I  longed  to  go  where  there  was 
life  and  movement ;  Mdlcote  was  a  large  man- 
ufacturing town  on  the  banks  of  the  A ;  a 

busy  place  enoug;  ,  doubtless;  so  much  the 
better,  it  would  bt  a  complete  change  at  least. 
Not  that  my  fancy  ..as  much  captivated  by 
the  idea  of  long  chimneys  and  clouds  of  smoke, 
"but,"  I  argued,  "Thornfield  will,  probably,  be 
a  good  way  from  the  town." 

Here  the  socket  of  the  candle  dropped,  and 
the  wick  went  out. 

Next  day  new  steps  were  to  be  taken  ;  my 
plans  could  no  longer  be  confined  to  my  own 
breast ;  I  must  impart  them  in  order  to  achieve 
their  success.      Having  sought   and  obtained 


JANE  EYRE. 


35 


an  audience  of  the  superintendent,  during  the 
noontide  recreation,  I  told  her  I  had  a  prospect 
of  getting-  a  new  situation,  where  the  salary 
would  be  double  what  1  now  received  (for  at 
Lowood  I  only  got  £15  per  annum);  and  re- 
quested she  would  break  the  matter  for  me  to 
Mr.  Brocklehurst  or  some  of  the  committee, 
and  ascertain  whether  they  would  permit  me  to 
mention  them  as  references.  She  obligingly 
consented  to  act  as  mediatrix  in  the  matter. 
The  next  day  she  laid  the  affair  before  Mr. 
Brocklehurst,  who  said  that  Mrs.  Reed  must 
be  written  to,  as  she  was  my  natural  guardian. 
A  note  was  accordingly  addressed  to  that  lady, 
who  returned  for  answer,  that  "  I  might  do  as  I 
pleased  ;  she  had  long  relinquished  all  inter- 
ference in  my  affairs."  This  note  went  the 
round  of  the  committee,  and,  at  last,  after  what 
appeared  to  me  most  tedious  delay,  formal  leave 
was  given  me  to  better  my  condition  if  I  could  ; 
and  an  assurance  added,  that,  as  I  had  always 
conducted  myself  well,  both  as  teacher  and 
pupil,  at  Lowood,  a  testimonial  of  character 
and  capacity,  signed  by  the  inspectors  of  that 
institution,  should  forthwith  be  furnisl-ed  me. 

This  testimonial  I  accordingly  received  in 
about  a  week  ;  forwarded  a  copy  of  it  to  Mrs. 
Fairfax,  and  got  that  lady's  reply,  stating  that 
she  was  satisfied,  and  fixing  that  day  fortnight 
as  the  period  for  my  assuming  the  post  of  gov- 
erness in  her  house. 

I  now  busied  myself  in  preparations  ;  the 
fortnight  pas^d  rapidly.  I  had  not  a  very  large 
wardrobe,  though  it  was  adequate  to  my  wants  ; 
and  the  last  day  sufficed  to  pack  my  trunk,  th-e 
same  I  had  brought  with  me  eight  years  ago 
from  Gateshead. 

The  box  was  corded,  the  card  nailed  on.  In 
half  an  hour  the  carrier  was  to  call  for  it  to 
take  it  to  Lowton  ;  whither  I  myself  was  to 
repair  at  an  early  hour  the  next  morning  to 
meet  the  coach.  I  had  brushed  my  black  stuff 
traveling-dress,  prepared  my  bonnet,  gloves, 
and  muff;  sought  in  all  my  drawers  to  see  that 
no  article  was  left  behind  ;  and  now,  having 
nothing  more  to  do,  I  sat  down  and  tried  to 
rest.  I  could  not  ;  though  I  had  been  on  foot 
all  day,  I  could  not  now  repose  an  instant ;  I 
was  too  much  excited.  A  phase  of  my  life 
was  closing  to-night,  a  new  one  opening  to- 
morrow ;  impossible  to  slumber  in  the  interval, 
I  must  watch  feverishly  while  the  change  was 
being  accomplished. 

"  Miss,"  said  a  servant,  who  met  me  in  the 
lobby,  where  I  was  wandering  like  a  troubled 
spirit,  "  a  person  below  wishes  to  see  you." 

"The  carrier,  no  doubt,"  I  thought,  and  ran 
down  stairs  without  inquiry.  I  was  passing 
the  back  parlor,  or  teacher's  sitting-room,  the 
door  of  which  was  half  open,  to  go  to  the 
kitchen,  when  some  one  ran  out : 

'•  It's  her,  I  am  sure  !  I  could  have  told  her 
any  where  !"  cried  the  individual,  who  slopped 
my  progress  and  took  my  hand. 

I  looked  ;  I  saw  a  woman  attired  like  a  well- 
dressed  servant,  matronly,  yet  still  young ; 
very  good  looking,  with  black  hair  and  eyes, 
and  lively  complexion. 

"Well,  who  is  it!"  she  asked  in  a  voice  and, 
with  a  smile  I  half  recognized  ;  '•  you've  not 
quite  forgotten  mc,  I  think,  Miss  Jane?" 

In  another  second  I  was  embracing  and  kiss- 


ing her  rapturously,  "Bessie!  Bessie!  Bessie  !" 
that  was  all  I  said  ;  whereat  she  half  laughed, 
half  cried,  and  we  both  went  into  the  parlor. 
By  the  fire  stood  a'little  fellow  three  years  old, 
in  plaid  frock  and  trowsers. 

"  That  is  my  little  boy,"  said  Bessie,  directly. 

"Then  you  are  married,  Bessie  1" 

"  Yes ;  nearly  five  years  since,  to  Robert 
Leaven,  the  coachman  ;  and  I've  a  little  girl 
besides  Bobby  there,  that  I've  christened  Jane." 

"  And  you  don't  live  at  Gateshead!" 

"I  live  at  the  Lodge;  the  old  porter  has 
left." 

"  Well,  and  how  do  they  all  get  on !  Tell 
me  every  thing  about  them,  Bessie ;  but  sit 
down  first ;  and,  Bobby,  come  and  sit  on  my 
knee,  will  you!"  but  Bobby  preferred  sidling 
over  to  his  mother. 

"  You're  not  grown  so  very  tall.  Miss  Jane, 
nor  so  very  stout,"  continued  Mrs.  Leaven. 
"  I  dare  say  they've  not  kept  you  too  well  at 
school ;  Miss  Reed  is  the  head  and  shoulders 
taller  than  you  are,  and  Miss  Georgiana  would 
make  two  of  you  in  breadth." 

"  Georgiana  is  handsome,  I  suppose,  Bessie?" 

"  Very.  She  went  up  to  London  last  win- 
ter with  her  mamma,  and  there  every  body  ad- 
mired her,  and  a  young  lord  fell  in  love  wit  i 
her,  but  his  relations  were  against  the  matct  ; 
and — what  do  you  think!  he  and  Miss  Georgi- 
ana made  it  up  to  run  away,  but  they  were 
found  out  and  stopped.  It  was  Miss  Reed  that 
found  them  out  ;  I  believe  she  was  envious, 
and  now  she  and  her  sister  lead  a  cat-and-dog 
life  together;  they  are  always  quarreling." 

"  Well,  and  what  of  John  Reed  V 

"  Oh,  he  is  not  doing  so  well  as  his  mamma 
could  wish.  He  went  to  college,  and  he  got — 
plucked,  I  think  they  call  it ;  and  then  his  un- 
cles wanted  him  to  be  a  barrister,  and  study 
the  law  ;  but,  he  is  such  a  dissipated  young  man, 
they  will  never  make  much  of  him,  I  think." 

"  What  does  he  look  like!" 

"  He  is  very  tall ;  some  people  call  him  a 
fine-looking  young  man  ;  but  he  has  such  thick 
lips." 

"And  Mrs.  Reed!" 

"  Missis  looks  stout  and  well  enough  in  the 
face,  but  I  think  she's  not  quite  easy  in  her 
mind  :  Mr.  John's  conduct  does  not  please  her: 
he  spends  a  deal  of  money." 

"  Did  she  send  you  here,  Bessie !" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  but  I  have  long  wanted  to  see 
you,  and  when  I  heard  that  there  had  been  a 
letter  from  you,  and  that  you  were  going  to  an- 
other part  of  the  country,  I  thought  I'd  just  set 
off  and  get  a  look  at  you  before  you  were  quite 
outof  my  reach."  ' 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  disappointed  in  me, 
Bessie."  I  said  this  laughing ;  I  perceived 
that  Bessie's  glance,  though  it  expressed  re- 
gard, dia  in  no  shape  denote  admiration. 

"  No,  Miss  Jane,  not  exactly  :  you  are  gen- 
teel enough  ;  you  look  like  a  lady,  and  it  is  as 
much  as  ever  I  expected  of  you :  you  were  no 
beauty  as  a  child." 

I  smiled  at  Bessie's  frank  answer  ;  I  felt  that 
it  was  correct,  but  I  confess  I  was  not  quite  in- 
different to  its  import.  At  eighteen  most  people 
wish  to  please,  and  the  conviction  that  they 
have  not  an  exterior  likely  to  second  that  de- 
sire brings  any  thing  but  gratification. 


'36 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  I  dare  say  you  are  clever,  though,"  contin- 
ued Bessie,  by  way  of  solace  "  What  can  you 
do  1     Can  you  play  on  the  piano  1" 

"  A  little." 

There  was  one  in  the  room  ;  Bessie  went 
and  opened  it,  and  then  asked  me  to  sit  down 
and  give  her  a  tune  :  I  played  a  waltz  or  two 
and  she  was  charmed. 

"  The  Miss  Reeds  could  not  play  as  well !" 
Bald  she,  exultingly.  "  I  always  said  you 
would  surpass  them  in  learning ;  and  can  you 
drawl". 

"  That  is  one  of  my  paintings  over  the  chim- 
ney-piece." It  was  a  landscape  in  water-col- 
ors, of  which  I  had  made  a  present  to  the  su- 
perintendent in  acknowledgment  of  her  obliging 
mediation  with  the  committee  on  my  behalf ; 
and  which  she  had  had  framed  and  glazed. 

"  Well,  that  is  beautiful.  Miss  Jane  I  It  is  as 
fine  a  picture  as  any  Miss  Reed's  drawing-mas- 
ter could  paint,  let  alone  the  young  ladies 
themselves,  who  could  not  come  near  it ;  and 
have  you  learned  French  1" 

"  Yes,  Bessie,  I  can  both  read  it  and  speak 
it." 

"  And  you  can  work  on  muslin  and  canvas  1" 

"lean." 

"  Oh,  you  are  quite  a  lady.  Miss  Jane  I  I 
knew  you  would  be ;  you  will  get  on  whether 
your  relations  notice  you  or  not.  There  was 
something  I  wanted  to  ask  you — have  you  ever 
heard  any  thing  from  your  father's  kinsfolk,  the 
Eyres  1" 

"  Never  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  you  know  missis  always  said  they 
were  poor  and  quite  despicable  ;  and  they  may 
be  poor,  but  I  believe  they  are  as  much  gentry 
as  the  Reeds  are ;  for  one  day,  nearly  seven 
years  ago,  a  Mr.  Eyre  came  to  Gateshead,  and 
wanted  'to  see  you.  Missis  said  you  were  at 
school  fifty  miles  off;  he  seemed  so  much  dis- 
appointed, for  he  could  not  s,tay — he  was  going 
on  a  voyage  to  a  foreign  country,  and  the  ship 
was  to  sail  from  London  in  a  day  or  two.  He 
looked  quite  a  gentleman,  and  I  believe  he  was 
your  father's  brother." 

"  What  foreign  country  was  he  going  to,  Bes- 
sie"!" 

"  An  island  thousands  of  miles  off,  where 
they  make  wine — the  butler  did  tell  me — " 

"  Madeira  1"  I  suggested. 

"  Yes,  that  is  it — that  is  the  very  word." 

"So  he  went?" 

"  Yes  ;  he  did  not  stay  many  minutes  in  the 
house ;  missis  was  very  high  with  him ;  she 
called  him  afterward  a  'sneaking  tradesman.' 
My  Robert  believes  he  was  a  wine-mer- 
chant." 

"  Very  likely,"  I  returned  ;  "  or  perhaps  clerk 
or  agent  to  a  wine-merchant." 

Bessie  and  I  conversed  about  old  times  an 
hour  longer,  and  then  she  was  obliged  to  leave 
H[ie.  I  saw  her  again  for  a  few  minutes  the 
next  morning  at  Lowton,  while  I  was  waiting 
for  the  coach.  We  parted  finally  at  the  door 
of  the  Brocklehurst  Arms  there ;  each  went 
her  separate  way — she  set  off  for  the  brow  of 
Lowood  Fell  to  meet  the  conveyance  which 
was  to  take  her  back  to  Gateshead,  I  mounted 
the  vehicle  which  was  to  bear  me  to  new  duties 
and  a  new  life  in  the  unknown  environs  of 
Miflcote. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A  NEW  chapter  in  a  novel  is  something  like  a 
new  scene  in  a  play  ;  and  when  I  draw  up  the 
curtain  this  time,  reader,  you  must  fancy  you 
see  a  room  in  the  George  Inn  at  Millcote,  with 
such  large-figured  papering  on  the  walls  as  inn 
rooms  have  ;  such  a  carpet,  such  furniture,  such 
ornaments  on  the  mantle-piece,  such  prints,  in- 
cluding a  portrait  of  George  the  Third,  and  an- 
other of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  a  representa- 
tion of  the  death  of  Wolfe.  All  this  is' visible 
to  you  by  the  light  of  an  oil-lamp  hanging  from 
the  ceihng,  and  by  that  of  an  excellent  fire,  near 
which  I  sit  in  my  cloak  and  bonnet ;  my  muff 
and  umbrella  lie  on  the  table,  and  I  am  warm- 
ing away  the  numbness  and  chill  contracted  by 
sixteen  hours'  exposure  to  the  rawness  of  an 
October  day.  I  left  Lowton  at  four  o'clock 
P.M.,  and  the  Millcote  town-clock  is  now  just 
striking  eight. 

Reader,  though  I  look  comfortably  accommo- 
dated, I  am  not  very  tranquil  in  my  mind ;  I 
thought  when  the  coach  stopped  here  there 
would  be  some  one  to  meet  me ;  I  looked  anx- 
iously round  as  I  descended  the  wooden  steps 
the  "boots"  placed  for  my  convenience,  ex- 
pecting to  hear  my  name  pronounced  and  to 
see  some  description  of  carriage  waiting  to 
convey  me  to  Thornfield.  Nothing  of  the  sort 
was  visible  ;  and  -when  I  asked  a  waiter  if  any 
one  had  been  to  inquire  after  a  Miss  Eyre,  I  was 
answered  in  the  negative  ;  so  I  had  no  resource 
but  to  request  to  be  shown  into  a  private  room  ; 
and  here  I  am  waiting,  while  all  sorts  of  doubts 
and  fears  are  troubling  my  thoughts. 

It  is  a  very  strange  sensation  to  inexperi- 
enced youth  to  feel  itself  quite  alone  in  the 
world  ;  cut  adrift  from  every  connection,  un- 
certain whether  the  port  to  which  it  is  bound 
can  be  reached,  and  prevented  by  many  imped- 
iments from  returning  to  that  it  has  quitted. 
The  charm  of  adventure  sweetens  that  sensa- 
tion, the  glow  of  pride  warms  it ;  but  then  the 
throb  of  fear  disturbs  it ;  and  fear  with  me  be- 
came predominant  when  half  an  hour  elapsed 
and  still  I  was  alone.  I  bethought  myself  to 
ring  the  bell. 

"  Is  there  a  place  in  this  neighborhood  called 
Thornfield?"  I  asked  of  the  waiter  who  answer 
ed  the  summons. 

"  Thornfield  ?  don't  know,  ma'am  ;  I'll  inquire 
at  the  bar."  He  vanished,  but  reappeared  in- 
stantly. 

"Is  your  name  Eyre,  miss?'' 

"Yes." 

"  Person  here  waiting  for  you." 

"  I  jumped  up,  took  my  muff  and  umbrella, 
and  hastened  into  the  inn  passage  ;  a  man  was 
standing  by  the  open  door,  and  in  the  lamp- 
lighted  street,  I  dimly  saw  a  one-horse  convey- 
ance." 

"  This  will  be  your  luggage,  I  suppose  I"  said 
the  man,  rather  abruptly,  when  he  saw  me, 
pointing  to  my  trunk  in  the  passage. 

"  Yes." 

He  hoisted  it  on  to  the  vehicle,  which  was  a 
sort  of  car,  and  then  I  got  in  ;  before  he  shut 
me  up,  I  asked  him  how  far  it  was  to  Thorn- 
field. 

"  A  matter  of  six  miles." 

"  How  long  shall  we  be  before  we  get  there  1" 


JANE  EYRE. 


37 


"  Happen  an  hour  and  a  half." 

He  fastened  the  car  door,  chmbed  to  his  own 
seat  outside,  and  we  set  off.  Our  progress  was 
leisurely,  and  gave  me  ample  time  to  reflect ;  I 
was  content  to  be  at  length  so  near  the  end  of 
my  journey ;  and  as  I  leaned  back  in  the  com- 
fortable though  not  elegant  conveyance,  I  med- 
itated much  at  my  ease. 

"I  suppose,"  thought  I,  "judging  from  the 
plainness  of  the  servant  and  carriage,  Mrs. 
Fairfax  is  not  a  very  dashing  person  ;  so  much 
the  better  ;  I  never  lived  among  fine  people  but 
once,  and  I  was  very  miserable  with  them.  I 
wonder  if  she  lives  alone  except  this  little  girl ; 
if  so,  and  if  she  is  in  any  degree  amiable,  I  shall 
surely  be  able  to  get  on  with  her  ;  I  will  do  my 
best — it  is  a  pity  that  doing  one's  best  does  not 
always  answer.  At  Lowood,  indeed,  I  took 
that  resolution,  kept  it,  and  succeeded  in  pleas- 
ing ;  but  with  Mrs.  Reed  I  remember  my  best 
was  always  spurned  with  scorn.  I  pray  God 
Mrs.  Fairfax  may  not  turn  out  a  second  Mrs. 
Reed  ;  but  if  she  does,  I  am  not  bound  to  stay 
with  her ;  let  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  I 
can  advertise  again.  How  far  are  we  on  our 
load  now,  I  wonder  1" 

I  let  down  the  window  and  looked  out.  Mill- 
cote  was  behind  us  ;  judging  by  the  number  of 
its  lights,  it  seemed  a  place  of  considerable 
magnitude — much  larger  than  Lowton.  We 
were  now,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  on  a  sort  of 
common  ;  but  there  were  houses  scattered  all 
over  the  district.  I  felt  we  were  in  a  different 
region  to  Lowood — more  populous,  less  pictu- 
resque ;  more  stirring,  less  romantic. 

The  roads  were  heavy,  the  night  misty ;  my 
conductor  let  his  horse  walk  all  the  way,  and 
the  hour  and  a  half  extended,  I  verily  believe, 
to  two  hours ;  at  last  he  turned  in  his  seat  and 
said : 

"  You're  noan  so  far  fro'  Thornfield  now." 

Again  1  looked  out — we  were  passing  a 
church ;  I  saw  its  low,  broad  tower  against  the 
sky,  and  its  bell  was  tolling  a  quarter ;  I  saw  a 
narrow  galaxy  of  lights,  too,  on  a  hillside, 
marking  a  village  or  hamlet.  About  ten  min- 
utes after,  the  driver  got  down  and  opened  a 
pair  of  gates  ;  we  passed  through,  and  they 
clashed  to  behind  us.  We  now  slowly  ascend- 
ed a  drive,  and  came  upon  the  long  front  of  a 
house  ;  candle-light  gleamed  from  one  curtained 
bow-window — all  the  rest  were  dark.  The  car 
stopped  at  the  front  door ;  it  was  opened  by  a 
maid-servant ;  I  alighted  and  went  in. 

"Will  you  walk  this  way,  ma'am  1"  said  the 
girl ;  and  I  followed  her  across  a  square  hall 
with  high  doors  all  round  ;  she  ushered  me  into 
a  room,  whose  doulile  illumination  of  fire  and 
candle  at  first  dazzled  me,  contrasting  as  it  did 
with  the  darkness  to  which  my  eyes  had  been 
for  two  hours  inured ;  wlien  I  could  see,  how- 
ever, a  cozy  and  agreeable  picture  presented 
itself  to  my  view. 

A  snug,  small  room ;  a  round  table  by  a 
cheerful  tire  ;  an  arm-chair,  high-backed  and 
,old-fashioned,  wherein  sat  the  neatest  imagina- 
ble little  elderly  lady,  in  widow's  cap,  black  silk 
gown,  and  snowy  muslin  apron — exactly  like 
what  I  had  fancied  Mrs.  Fairfax,  only  less 
stately  and  milder-looking.  She  was  occupied 
in  knitting ;  a  large  cat  sat  demurely  at  her 
feet ;  nothing,  in  short,  was  wanting  to  conipJete 


the  beau  ideal  of  domestic  comfort.  A  more  re- 
assuring introduction  for  a  new  governess  could 
scarcely  be  conceived  ;  there  was  no  grandeur 
to  overwhelm,  no  stateliness  to  embarrass  ;  and 
then,  as  I  entered,  the  old  lady  got  up  and,^ 
promptly  and  kindly  came  forward  to  meet  me. , 

"How  do  you  do,  my  dear!  I  am  afraid 
you  have  had  a  tedious  ride,  John  drives  so 
slowly  ;  you  must  be  cold — come  to  the  fire." 

"Mrs.  Fairfax,  I  suppose  1"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right ;  do  sit  down." 

She  conducted  me  to  her  own  chair,  and 
then  began  to  remove  my  shawl  and  untie  my 
bonnet-strings  ;  I  begged  she  would  not  give 
herself  so  much  trouble. 

"  Oh,  it  is  no  tronble ;  I  dare  say  your  own 
hands  are  almost  numbed  with  cold.  Leah, 
make  a  little  hot  negus,  and  cut  a  sandwich  or 
two  ;  here  are  the  keys  of  the  store-room." 

And  she  produced  from  her  pocket  a  most 
housewifely  bunch  of  keys,  and  delivered  them 
to  the  servant. 

"  Now,  then,  draw  nearer  to  the  fire,"  she 
continued.  "  You've  brought  your  luggage 
with  you,  haven't  you,  my  dearl" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  I'll  see  it  carried  into  your  room,"  she  said, 
and  bustled  out. 

"  She  treats  me  like  a  visitor,"  thought  L 
"  I  little  expected  such  a  reception  ;  I  antici- 
pated only  coldness  and  stiffness  ;  this  is  not 
like  what  I  have  heard  of  the  treatment  of  gov- 
ernesses ;  but  I  must  not  exult  too  soon." 

She  returned  ;  with  her  own  hands  cleared 
her  knitting  apparatus  and  a  book  or  two  from 
the  table,  to  make  room  for  the  tray  which 
Leah  now  brought,  and  then  herself  handed  me 
the  refreshments.  I  felt  rather  confused  at 
being  the  object  of  more  attention  than  I  had.^ 
ever  J^efore  received,  and  that,  too,  shown  by( 
my  employer  and  superior ;  but  as  she  did  not 
herself  seem  to  consider  she  was  doing  any 
thing  out  of  her  place,  I  thought  it  better  to 
take  her  civilities  quietly. 

"  Shall  I  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Miss 
Fairfax  to-night  1"  I  asked,  when  I  had  partak- 
en of  what  she  offered  me* 

"What  did  you  say,  my  dear^  I  am  a  little, 
deaf,"  returned  the  good  lady,  approaching  her 
ear  to  my  mouth. 

I  repeated  the  question  more  distinctly. 

"Miss  Fairfax  1  Oh,  you  mean  Miss  Var- 
ens  !    Yarens  is  the  name  of  your  future  pupil.'* 

"  Indeed  1    Then  she  is  not  your  daughter'?'* 

"  No — I  have  no  family." 

I  should  have  followed  up  my  first  inquiry 
by  asking  in  what  way  Miss  Yarens  was  con- 
nected with  her;  but  I  recollected  it  was  not 
polite  to  ask  too  many  questions ;  besides,  I 
was  sure  to  hear  in  time. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  continued,  as  she  sat 
down  opposite  to  me,  and  took  the  cat  on  her 
knee,  "  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  ;  it  will  be 
quite  pleasant  living  here  now  with  a  compan- 
ion. To  be  sure  it  is  pleasant  at  any  time  j 
for  Thornfield  is  a  fine  old  hall,  father  neglect- 
ed of  late  years,  perhaps,  but  still  it  is  a  respect- 
able place  :  yet,  you  know,  in  winter  time,  one 
feels  dreary  quite  alone,  in  the  best  quarters.  I 
say  alone — Leah  is  a  nice  girl  to  be  sure,  and 
John  and  his  wife  are  very  decent  people ;  but 
then,  you  see,  they  are  only  servants,  and  one 


38 


JANE  EYRE. 


can't  converse  with  thcin  on  terms  of  equality; 
one  must  keep  them  at  due  distance,  for  fear  of 
losing  one's  authority.  I'm  sure  last  winter  (it 
was  a  severe  one,  if  you  recollect,  and  when  it 
did  not  snow,  it  rained  and  blew),  not  a  creature 
but  the  butcher  and  postman  came  to  the  house, 
from  November  till  February ;  and  I  really  got 
quite  melancholy  with  sitting  night  after  night 
alone ;  I  had  Leah  in  to  read  to  me  some- 
times ;  but  I  don't  think  the  poor  girl  liked  the 
task  much  ;  she  felt  it  confining.  In  spring 
and  summer  one  got  on  better ;  sunshine  and 
long  days  make  such  a  difference ;  and  then 
just  at  the  commencement  of  this  autumn,  lit- 
tle Adela  Varens  came  and  her  nurse  :  a  child 
makes  a  house  alive  all  at  once  ;  and  now  you 
are  here  I  shall  be  quite  gay." 

My  heart  really  warmed  to  the  worthy  lady 
as  I  heard  her  talk  ;  and  I  drew  my  chair  a 
little  nearer  to  her,  and  expressed  my  sincere 
■wish  that  she  might  find  my  company  as  agree- 
able as  she  anticipated. 

"  But  I'll  not  keep  you  silting  up  late  to- 
night," said  she  ;  "  it  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve 
now,  and  you  have  been  traveling  all  day  :  you 
must  feel  tired.  If  you  have  got  your  feet  well 
"warmed  I'll  show  you  your  bedroom.  I've 
had  the  room  next  to  mine  prepared  for  you ; 
at  is  only  a  small  apartment,  but  I  thought  you 
"would  like  it  better  than  one  of  the  large  front 
chambers  ;  to  be  sure  they  have  finer  furniture, 
but  they  are  so  dreary  and  solitary,  I  never 
sleep  in  them  myself." 

I  thanked  her  for  her  considerate  choice,  and 
as  I  really  felt  fatigued  with  my  long  journey, 
expressed  my  readiness  to  retire.  She  took 
her  candle,  and  1  followed  her  from  the  room. 
First  she  went  to  see  if  the  hall-door  was  fast- 
ened ;  having  taken  the  key  from  the  lock,  she 
led  the  way  up  stairs.  The  steps  and  banis- 
ters were  of  oak  ;  the  stair-case  window  was 
high  and  latticed :  both  it,  and  the  long  gallery 
into  which  the  bedroom  doors  opened,  looked 
as.if  they  belonged  to  a  church  rather  than  a 
house.  A  very  chill  and  vault-like  air  pervaded 
the  stairs  and  gallery,  suggesting  cheerless 
ideas  of  space  and  solitude  ;  and  I  was  glad 
when  finally  ushered  into  my  chamber,  to  find 
it  of  small  dimensions  and  furnished  in  ordi- 
nary modern  style. 

When  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  bid  me  a  kind  good- 
night, and  I  had  fastened  my  door,  gazed  leis- 
•urcly  round,  and  in  some  measure  effaced  the 
eerie  impression  made  by  that  wide  hall,  that 
dark  and  spacious  stair-case,  and  that  long, 
cold  gallery,  by  the  livelier  aspect  of  my  little 
Toom,  I  remembered  that  after  a  day  of  bodily 
fatigue  and  mental  anxiety,  I  was  now  at  last 
in  safe  haven.  The  impulse  of  gratitude  swell- 
ed my  heart,  and  I  knelt  down  at  the  bedside 
and  offered  up  thanks  where  thanks  were  due  ; 
not  forgetting,  ere  I  rose,  to  implore  aid  on  my 
further  path,  and  the  power  of  me/iting  the 
kindness  which  seemed  so  frankly  offered  me 
before  it  was  earned.  My  couch  had  no  thorns 
in  it  that  night ;  my  solitary  room  no  fears.  At 
once  weary  and  content,  I  slept  soon  and 
soundly  ;  when  I  awoke  it  was  broad  day. 

The  chamber  looked  such  a  bright  little 
]ilace  to  me  as  the  sun  shone  in  between  the 
gay  blue  chintz  window-curtains,  showing  pa- 
pered walls  and  a  carpeted  floor,  so  unlike  the 


bare  planks  and  staineo  plaster  of  Lowood, 
that  my  spirits  rose  at  the  view.  Externals 
have  a  great  effect  on  the  young ;  I  thought 
that  a  fairer  era  of  life  was  beginning  for  me — 
one  that  was  to  have  its  flowers  and  pleasures, 
as  well  as  its  thorns  and  toils.  My  faculties, 
roused  by  the  change  of  scene,  the  new  field 
offered  to  hope,  seemed  all  astir.  I  can  not 
precisely  define  what  they  expected,  but  it 
was  something  pleasant :  not  perhaps  that  day 
or  that  month,  but  at  an  indefinite  future  pe- 
riod. 

I  rose  ;  I  dressed  myself  with  care :  obliged 
to  be  plain — for  I  had  no  article  of  attire  that 
was  not  made  with  extreme  simplicity — I  was 
still  by  nature  solicitous  to  be  neat.  It  was  not 
my  habit  to  be  disregardful  of  appearance,  or 
careless  of  the  impression  I  made ;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  ever  wished  to  look  as  well  as  I  could, 
and  to  please  as  much  as  my  want  of  beauty 
would  permit.  I  sometimes  regretted  that  I 
was  not  handsomer  :  I  sometimes  wished  to 
have  rosy  cheeks,  a  straight  nose,  and  small 
cherry  mouth  ;  I  desired  to  be  tall,  stately,  and 
finely  developed  in  figure  ;  1  felt  it  a  misfortune 
that  I  was  so  little,  so  pale,  and  had  features 
so  irregular  and  marked.  And  why  had  I  these 
aspirations  and  these  regrets'!  It  would  be 
difficult  to  say  :  I  could  not  then  distinctly  say 
it  to  myself;  yet  I  had  a  reason,  and  a  logical, 
natural  reason  too.  However,  when  I  had 
brushed  my  hair  very  smooth,  and  put  on  my 
black  frock — which,  Quaker-like  as  it  was,  at 
least  had  the  merit  of  fitting  to  a  nicety — and 
adjusted  my  clean  white  tucker,*  I  thought  I 
should  do  respectably  enough  to  appear  before 
Mrs.  Fairfax  ;  and  that  my  new  pupil  would 
not  at  least  recoil  from  me  with  antipathy. 
Having  opened  my  chamber  window,  and  seen 
that  I  left  all  things  straight  and  neat  on  the 
toilet-table,  I  ventured  forth. 

Traversing  the  long  and  matted  gallery,  I 
descended  the  slippery  steps  of  oak  ;  then  I 
gained  the  hall ;  I  halted  there  a  minute ;  I 
looked  at  some  pictures  on  the  walls  (one  I  re- 
member represented  a  grim  man  in  a  cuirass, 
and  one  a  lady  with  powdered  hair  and  a  pearl 
necklace) ;  at  a  bronze  lamp  pendent  on  the 
ceiling,  at  a  great  clock  whose  case  was  of 
oak,  curiously  carved,  and  ebon  black  with 
time  and  rubbing.  Every  thing  appeared  very 
stately  and  imposing  to  me  ;  but  then  I  was  so 
little  accustomed  to  grandeur.  The  hall-door, 
which  was  half  of  glass,  stood  open  ;  I  stepped 
over  the  threshold.  It  was  a  fine  autumn 
morning  ;  the  early  -sun  shone  serenely  on 
embrowned  groves  and  still  green  fields ;  ad- 
vancing on  to  the  lawn,  I  looked  up,  and  sur- 
veyed the  front  of  the  mansion.  It  was  three 
stories  high,  of  proportions  not  vast,  though 
considerable  ;  a  gentleman's  manor-house,  not 
a  nobleman's  seat ;  battlements  around  the  top 
gave  it  a  picturesque  look.  Its  gray  front 
stood  out  well  from  the  back  ground  of  a  rook- 
ery, whose  cawing  tenants  were  now  on  the 
wing ;  they  flew  over  the  lawn  and  grounds  to 
alight  in  a  great  meadow,  from  which  these 
were  separated  by  a  sunk  fence,  and  where  an 
array  of  mighty  old  thorn-trees,  strong,  knotty, 
and  broad  as  oaks  at  once  explained  the  ety- 
mology of  the  mansion's  designation  Farther 
off  were  hills  ;  not  so  lofty   as   those   round 


JANE  EYRE. 


39 


Lowood,  nor  so  craggy,  nor  so  like  barriers  of 
separation  from  the  living  world ;  but  yet, 
quiet  and  lonely  hills  enough,  and  seeming 
to  embrace  Thornlield  witli  ;i  seclusion  I  had 
not  expected  to  find  existent  so  near  the  stir- 
ring locality  of  Millcote.  A  little  hamlet  whose 
roofs  were  blent  with  trees,  straggled  up  the 
side  of  one  of  these  hills  ;  the  church  of  the 
district  stood  nearer  Thornfield  :  its  old  tower- 
top  looked  over  a  knoll  between  the  house  and 
gates. 

I  was  yet  enjoying  the  calm  prospect  and 
1  pleasant  fresh  air,  yet  listening  with  delight  to 
the  cawing  of  the  rooks,  yet  surveying  the 
wide,  hoary  front  of  the  hall,  and  thinking 
what  a  great  place  it  was  for  one  lonely  little 
dame  like  Mrs.  Fairfax  to  inhabit,  when  that 
lady  appeared  at  the  door. 

"What  !  out  already  1"  said  she.  "I  see 
you  are  an  early  riser."  I  went  up  to  her,  and 
was  received  with  an  affable  kiss  and  shake  of 
the  hand. 

"How  do  you  like  Thornfield'!"  she  asked. 
I  told  her  I  liked  it  very  much. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "  it  is  a  pretty  place  ;  but 
I  fear  it  will  be  getting  out  of  order,  unless 
Mr.  Rochester  should  take  it  into  his  head  to 
come  and  reside  here  permanently ;  or,  at 
least,  visit  it  rather  oftener  ;  great  houses  and 
fine  grounds  require  the  presence  of  the  pro- 
prietor." 

"Mr.  Rochester!"  I  exclaimed.  "Who  is 
her' 

"  The  owner  of  Thornfield,"  she  responded 
quietly.  "  Did  you  not  know  he  was  called 
Rochester"' 

Of  course  I  did  not — I  had  never  heard  of 
him  before  ;  but  the  old  lady  seemed  to  regard 
his  existence  as  a  universally  understood  fact, 
with  which  every  body  must  be  acquainted  by 
instinct. 

"  I  thought,"  I  continued,  "  Thornfield  be- 
longed to  you." 

"  To  me  !  Bless  you,  child  !  what  an  idea  ! 
To  me  1  I  am  only  the  housekeeper — the 
manager.  To  be  sure,  I  am  distantly  related 
to  the  Rochesters  by  the  mother's  side  ;  or,  at 
least,  my  husband  was ;  he  was  a  clergyman, 
incumbent  of  Hay — that  little  village  yonder 
on  the  hill — and  that  church  near  the  gates 
was  his.  The  present  Mr.  Rochester's  mother 
was  a  Fairfax,  and  second  cousin  to  my  hus- 
band ;  but  I  never  presume  on  the  connection 
— in  fact,  it  is  nothing  to  me  ;  I  consider  my- 
self quite  in  the  light  of  an  ordinary  house- 
keeper :  my  employer  is  always  civil,  and  I 
expect  nothing  more." 

"  And  the  little  girl — my  pupil  1" 

"  She  is  Mr.  Rochester's  ward  ;  he  commis- 
sioned me  to  find  a  governess  for  her.  He  in- 
tends to  have  her  brought  up  in  shire,  I 

believe.  Here  she  comes  with  her  ♦  bonne,'  as 
she  calls  her  nurse."  The  enigma  then  was 
explained  :  this  affable  and  kind  little  widow 
was  no  great  dame,  but  a  dependent  like  my- 
'  self.  I  did  not  like  her  the  worse  for  that ;  on 
the  contrary,  I  felt  better  pleased  than  ever. 
The  equality  between  her  and  me  was  real ; 
jiot  the  mere  result  of  condescension  on  her 
part ;  so  much  the  better — my  position  was  all 
the  freer. 

As  I  was  meditating  on  this  discovery,  a 


little  girl,  followed  by  her  attendant,  came  run- 
ning up  the  lawn.  I  looked  at  my  pupil,  who 
did  not,  at  first  appear  to  notice  me ;  she  was 
quite  a  child,  perhaps  seven  or  eight  years  old, 
slightly  built,  with  a  pale,  small-featured  face, 
and  a  redundancy  of  hair  falling  in  curls  to  her 
waist. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Adela,"  said  Mrs. 
Fairfax.  "  Come  and  speak  to  the  lady  who  is 
to  teach  you,  and  to  make  you  a  clever  womaa 
some  day."     She  approached. 

"  C'est  la  ma  gouvernante  V  said  she,  point- 
ing  to  me,  and  addressing  her  nurse,  who  an- 
swered ;  ' 

"Mais  oui,  certainement." 

"Are  they  foreigners?"  I  inquired,  amazed 
at  hearing  the  French  language. 

"  The  nurse  is  a'  foreigner,  and  Adela  was 
born  on  the  continent ;  and,  I  believe,  never 
left  it  till  within  six  months  ago.  When  she 
first  came  here  she  could  speak  no  English; 
now  she  can  make  shift  to  talk  it  a  little ;  I 
don't  understand  her,  she  mixes  it  so  with 
French;  but  you  will  make  out  her  meaning 
very  well,  I  dare  say." 

Fortunately  1  had  had  the  advantage  of  be- 
ing taught  French  by  a  French  lady  ;  and  as  I 
had  always  made  a  point  of  conversing  with 
Madame  Pierrot,  as  often  as  I  could,  and  had, 
besides,  during  the  last  seven  years,  learned  a 
portion  of  French  by  heart  daily — applying  my- 
self to  take  pains  with  my  accent,  and  imitat- 
ing as  closely  as  possible  the  pronunciation  of 
my  teacher — I  had  acquired  a  certain  degree 
of  readiness  and  correctness  in  the  language, 
and  was  not  likely  to  be  much  at  a  loss  with 
Mademoiselle  Adela.  She  came  and  shook 
hands  with  me  when  she  heard  that  I  was  her 
governess ;  and  as  I  led  her  into  breakfast,  I 
addressed  some  phrases  to  her  in  her  owa 
tongue ;  she  replied  briefly  at  first,  but  after 
we  were  seated  at  the  table,  and  she  had  ex- 
amined me  some  ten  minutes  with  her  large 
hazel  eyes,  she  suddenly  commenced  chattering 
fluently. 

"  Ah !"  cried  she  in  French,  "  you  speak  my 
language  as  well  as  Mr.  Rochester  does  ;  Icaa 
talk  to  you  as  I  can  to  him,  and  so  can  Sophie. 
She  will  be  glad ;  nobody  here  understands 
her ;  Madame  Fairfax  is  all  English.  Sophie 
is  my  nurse  ;  she  came  with  me  over  the  sea 
in  a  great  ship  with  a  chimney  that  smoked — 
how  it  did  smoke — and  I  was  sick,  and  so  was 
Sophie,  and  so  was  Mr.  Rochester.  Mr.  Roch- 
ester lay  down  on  a  sofa  in  a  pretty  room 
called  the  salon,  and  Sophier  and  I  had  little 
beds  in  another  place.  I  nearly  fell  out  of 
mine  ;  it  was  like  a  shelf  And,  Mademoiselle 
what  is  your  name  V 

"  Eyre — Jane  Eyre." 

"Aire!  Bah!  I  can  not  say  it.  Well;  our 
ship  stopped  in  the  morning,  before  it  was 
quite  daylight,  at  a  great  city — a  huge  city, 
with  very  dark  houses  and  all  smoky  ;  not  at 
all  like  the  pretty,  clean  town  I  came  from ; 
and  Mr.  Rochester  carried  me  in  his  arms  over 
a  plank  to  the  land,  and  Sophie  came  after, 
and  we  all  got  into  a  coach,  which  took  us  to  a 
beautiful  large  house,  larger  than  this  and  finer, 
called  an  hotel.  We  stayed  there  nearly  a  week; 
I  and  Sophie  used  to  walk  every  day  in  a  great 
green  place  full  of  trees,  called  the  park  ;  and 


40 


JANE  EYRE. 


there  were  many  children  there  besides  me, 
and  a  pond  with  beautiful  birds  in  it,  that  I  fed 
with  crumbs." 

"  Can  you  understand  her  when  she  runs  on 
so  fasti"  asked  Mrs.  Fairfax. 

I  understood  her  very  well,  for  I  had  been 
accustomed  to  the  fluent  tongue  of  Madame 
Pierrot. 

"  I  wish,"  continued  the  good  lady,  "  you 
would  ask  her  a  question  or  two  about  her 
parents  ;  I  wonder  if  she  remembers  them  V 

"  Adeie,"  I  inquired,  "  with  whom  did  you 
live  when  you  were  in  that  pretty,  clean  town 
you  spoke  of!" 

"  I  lived  long  ago  with  mamma  ;  but  she  is 
gone  to  the  Holy  Virgin.  Mamma  used  to 
teach  me  to  dance  and  sing,  and  to  say  verses. 
A  great  many  gentlemen  and  ladies  came  to 
see  mamma,  and  I  used  to  dance  before  them, 
or  to  sit  on  their  knees  and  sing  to  them  ;  f 
liked  it.     Shall  I  let  you  hear  me  sing  now  V 

She  had  finished  her  breakfast,  so  I  permit- 
ted her  to  give  a  specimen  of  her  accomplish- 
ments. Descending  from  her  chair,  she  came 
and  placed  herself  on  my  knee  ;  then,  folding 
her  little  hands  demurely  before  her,  shaking 
back  her  curls  and  lifting  her  eyes  to  the  ceil- 
ing, she  commenced  singing  a  song  from  some 
opera.  It  was  the  strain  of  a  forsaken  lady, 
who,  after  bewailing  the  perfidy  of  her  lover, 
calls  pride  to  her  aid  ;  desires  her  attendant  to 
deck  her  in  her  brightest  jewels  and  richest 
TObes,  and  resolves  to  meet  the  false  one  that 
night  at  a  ball,  and  prove  to  him,  by  the  gayety 
of  her  demeanor,  how  little  his  desertion  has 
affected  her. 

The  subject  seemed  strangely  chosen  for  an 
infant  singer  ;  but  I  suppose  the  point  of  the 
exhibition  lay  in  hearing  the  notes  of  love  and 
jealousy  warbled  with  the  lisp  of  childhood  ; 
and  in  very  bad  taste  that  point  was ;  at  least, 
I  thought  so. 

Adele  sang  the  canzonet  tunefully  enough, 
and  with  the  naivete  of  her  age.  This  achiev- 
ed, she  jumped  from  my  knee,  and  said, 
*'Now,  mademoiselle,  I  will  repeat  you  some 
poetry." 

Assuming  an  attitude,  she  began  "  La  Ligue 
des  Rats;  fable  de  La  Fontaine."  She  then 
declaimed  the  little  piece,  with  an  attention  to 
punctuation  and  emphasis,  a  flexibility  of  voice, 
and  an  appropriateness  of  gesture,  very  unusual, 
indeed,  at  her  age,  and  which  proved  she  had 
been  carefully  trained. 

"  Was  it  your  mamma  who  taught  you  that 
piece"!"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  and  she  just  used  to  say  it  in  this  way : 
'  Qu'avez  vous  done "!  lui  dit  un  de  ces  rats  ; 
parlez  !'  She  made  me  lift  my  hand — so — to 
remind  me  to  raise  my  voice  at  the  question. 
Now,  shall  I  dance  for  you1" 

"  No,  that  will  jjo  ;  but  after  your  mamma 
went  to  the  Holy  Virgin,  as  you  say,  with  whom 
did  you  live  thenl" 

"  With  Madame  Frederic  and  her  husband  ; 
she  took  care  of  me,  but  she  is  nothing  related 
to  me.  I  think  she  is  poor,  for  she  had  not  so 
fine  a  house  as  mamma.  I  was  not  long  there. 
Mr.  Rochester  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  go 
and  live  witli  him  in  England,  and  I  said  yes ; 
for  I  knew  Mr.  Rochester  before  I  knew  Ma- 
dame Frederic,  and  he  was  always  kind  to  me 


and  gave  me  pretty  dresses  and  toys  ;  but  yoa 
see  he  has  not  kept  his  word,  for  he  has  brought 
me  to  England,  and  now  he  has  gone  back  again 
himself,  and  I  never  see  him." 

After  breakfast,  Adele  and  I  withdrew  to  the 
library,  which  room,  it  appears,  Mr.  Rochester 
had  directed  should  be  used  as  the  school-room. 
Most  of  the  books  were  locked  up  behind  glass 
doors ;  but  there  was  one  book-case  left  opea,' 
containing  every  thing  that  could  be  needed  m 
the  way  of  elementary  works,  and  several  vol- 
umes of  light  literature,  poetry,  biography,  traT- 
els,  a  few  romances,  &c.  I  suppose  he  had 
considered  that  these  were  all  the  governess 
would  require  for  her  private  perusal ;  and,  in- 
deed, they  contented  me  amply  for  the  present ; 
compared  with  the  scanty  pickings  I  had  now 
and  then  been  able  to  glean  at  Lowood,  they 
seemed  to  offer  an  abundant  harvest  of  enter- 
tainment and  information.  In  this  room,  too, 
there  was  a  cabinet-piano,  quite  new,  and  of 
superior  tone  ;  also,  an  easel  for  painting,  and 
a  pair  of  globes. 

I  found  my  pupil  sufficiently  docile,  though 
disinclined  to  apply  ;  she  had  not  been  used  to 
regular  occupation  of  any  kind.  I  felt  it  would 
be  injudicious  to  confine  her  too  much  at  first ; 
so,  when  I  had  talked  to  her  a  great  deal,  and 
got  her  to  learn  a  little,  and  when  the  morning 
had  advanced  to  noon,  I  allowed  her  to  return 
to  her  nurse.  I  then  proposed  to  occupy  ray- 
self  till  dinner-time  in  drawing  some  little 
sketches  for  her  use. 

As  I  was  going  up  stairs  to  fetch  my  port 
folio  and  pencils,  Mrs.  Fairfax  called  to  me . 
"  Your  morning  school-hours  are  over  now,  I 
suppose,"  said  she.  Sh»j  was  in  a  room,  the 
folding-doors  of  which  stood  open.  I  went  in 
when  she  addressed  me.  It  was  a  large,  state- 
ly apartment,  with  purple  chairs  and  curtains,  a 
Turkey  carpet,  walnut-paneled  walls,  one  vast 
window  rich  in  stained  glass,  and  a  lofty  ceiling 
nobly  molded.  Mrs.  Fairfax  was  dusting  some 
vases  of  fine  purple  spar,  which  stood  on  a  side- 
board. 

"  What  a  beautiful  room  !"  I  exclaimed,  as  I 
looked  round  ;  for  I  had  never  before  seen  any 
half  so  imposing. 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  dining-room.  I  have  just 
opened  the  window  to  let  in  a  little  air  and  sun- 
shine, for  every  thing  gets  so  damp  in  apart- 
ments that  are  seldom  inhabited  ;  the  drawing- 
room,  yonder,  feels  like  a  vault." 

She  pointed  to  a  wide  arch  corresponding  to 
the  window,  and  hung,  like  it,  with  a  Tyrian- 
dyed  curtain,  now  looped  up.  Mounting  to  it 
by  two  broad  steps  and  looking  through,  I 
thought  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  fairy  place — 
so  bright  to  my  novice-eyes  appeared  tlie  view- 
beyond.  Yet  it  was  merely  a  very  pretty  draw- 
ing-room, and  within  it  a  boudoir,  both  spread 
with  white  carpets,  on  which  seemed  laid  brill- 
iant garlands  of  flowers ;  both  ceiled  witb 
snowy  moldings  of  white  grapes  and  vine- 
leaves,  beneath  which  glowed,  in  rich  contrast, 
crimson  couches  and  ottomans ;  while  the  or- 
naments on  the  pale  Parian  mantle-piece  were 
of  "sparkling  Bohemian  glass,  ruby  red  ;  and 
between  the  windows  large  mirrors  repeated 
the  general  blending  of  snow  and  fire. 

"In  what  order  you  keep  these  rooms,  Mra.- 
Fairfax  !"  said  I.     "No  dust,  no  canvas  cot- 


JANE  EYRE. 


41 


erings  ;   except  that  the  air  feels  chilly,  one 
would  think  they  were  inhabited  daily." 

"  Why,  Miss  Eyre,  though  Mr.  Rochester's 
visits  here  are  rare,  they  are  always  sudden 
and  unexpected ;  and  as  I  observed  that  it  put 
him  out  to  find  every  thing  swathed  up,  and  to 
have  a  bustle  of  arrangement  on  his  arrival,  I 
thought  it  best  to  keep  the  rooms  in  readiness." 

"  Is  Mr.  Rochester  an  exacting,  fastidious 
sort  of  man?" 

"Not  particularly  so;  but  he  has  a  gentle- 
man's tastes  and  habits,  and  he  expects  to  have 
things  managed  in  conformity  to  them." 

"  Do  you  like  him  1     Is  he  generally  liked  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  the  family  have  always  been  re- 
spected here.  Almost  all  the  land  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, as  far  as  you  can  see,  has  belonged  to 
the  Rochesters  time  out  of  mind." 

"  Well,  but,  leaving  his  land  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, do  you  like  him  ?  Is  he  liked  for  him- 
self?" 

"  /  have  no  cause  to  do  otherwise  than  like 
him  ;  and  I  believe  he  is  considered  a  just  and 
liberal  landlord  by  his  tenants,  but  he  has  never 
lived  much  among  them." 

"  But  has  he  no  peculiarities  1  What,  in 
short,  is  his  character?" 

"  Oh !  his  character  is  unimpeachable,  I 
suppose.  He  is  rather  peculiar,  perhaps.  He 
has  traveled  a  great  deal,  and  seen  a  great  deal 
of  the  world,  I  should  think.  I  dare  say  he  is 
clever,  but  I  never  had  much  conversation  with 
him." 

"In  what  way  is  he  neculiar?" 

"I  don't  know— it  is  not  easy  to  describe — 
nothing  striking,  but  you  feel  it  when  he  speaks 
to  you  ;  you  can  not  be  always  sure  whether  he 
is  in  jest  or  earnest,  whether  he  is  pleased  or 
the  contrary  ;  you  don't  thoroughly  understand 
him — in  short,  at  least,  I  don't ;  but  it  is  of  no 
consequence,  he  is  a  very  good  master." 

This  was  all  the  account  I  got  from  Mrs. 
Fairfax  of  her  employer  and  mine.  There  are 
people  who  seem  to  have  no  notion  of  sketch- 
ing a  character,  or  observing  and  describing 
salient  points,  either  in  persons  or  things  ;  the 
good  lady  evidently  belonged  to  this  class  ;  my 
queries  puzzled,  but  did  not  draw  her  out.  Mr. 
Rochester  was  Mr.  Rochester  in  her  eyes — a 
gentleman — a  landed  proprietor — nothing  more. 
She  inquired  and  searched  no  farther,  and  evi- 
dently wondered  at  my  wish  to  gain  a  more 
definite  notion  of  his  identity. 

When  we  left  the  dining-room,  she  proposed 
to  show  me  over  the  rest  of  the  house  ;  and  I 
followed  her  up  stairs  and  down  stairs,  admir- 
ing as  I  went,  for  all  was  well-arranged  and 
handsome.  The  large  front  chambers  I  thought 
especially  grand  ;  and  some  of  the  third  story 
rooms,  though  dark  and  low,  were  interesting 
from  their  air  of  antiquity.  The  furniture  once 
appropriated  to  the  lower  apartments  had  from 
time  to  time  been  removed  here,  as  fashions 
changed;  and  the  imperfect  light,  entering  by 
their  narrow  casements,  showed  bedsteads  of 
a  hundred  years  old  ;  chests,  in  oak  or  walnut, 
'  looking,  with  their  strange  carvings  of  palm 
branches  and  cherubs'  heads,  like  types  of  the 
Hebrew  ark  ;  rows  of  venerable  chairs,  high- 
backed  and  narrow  ;  stools,  still  more  antiqua- 
ted, on  whose  cushioned  tops  were  yet  apparent 
traces  of  half  effaced  embroideries,  wrought  by 


fingers  that  for  two  generations  had  been  coffin- 
dust.  All  these  relics  gave  to  the  third  story 
of  Thornfield  Hall  the  aspect  of  a  home  of  the 
past — a  shrine  of  memory.  I  liked  the  hush, 
the  gloom,  the  quaintness  of  these  retreats  in 
the  day ;  but  I  by  no  means  coveted  a  night's 
repose  on  one  of  those  wide  and  heavy  beds — 
shut  in,  some  of  them,  with  doors  of  oak  ; 
shaded,  others,  with  wrought  old  English  hang- 
ings, crusted  with  thick  work,  portraying  effi- 
gies of  strange  flowers,  and  stranger  birds,  and 
strangest  human  bemgs— all  which  would  have 
looked  strange,  indeed,  by  the  pallid  gleam  of 
moonlight. 

"Do  the  servants  sleep  in  these  rooms?"  I 
asked. 

"  No  ;  they  occupy  a  range  of  smaller  apart- 
ments to  the  back.  No  one  ever  sleeps  here. 
One  would  almost  say  that,  if  there  were  a 
ghost  at  Thornfield  Hall,  this  would  be  its 
haunt." 

"  So  I  think.     You  have  no  ghost,  then  ?" 

"  None  that  I  ever  heard  of,"  returned  Mrs. 
Fairfax,  smiling. 

"Nor  any  traditions  of  one — no  legends  or 
ghost  stories?" 

"  I  believe  not ;  and  yet  it  is  said,  the  Roch- 
esters have  been  rather  a  violent  than  a  quiet 
race  in  their  time.  Perhaps,  though,  that 
is  the  reason  they  rest  tranquilly  in  their  graves 
now." 

"Yes;  'after  life's  fitful  fever  they  sleep 
well,'"  I  muttered.  "Where  are  you  going 
now,  Mrs.  Fairfax?"  for  she  was  moving 
away. 

"  On  to  the  leads  ;  will  you  come  and  see  the 
view  from  thence  ?"  I  followed  still,  up  a  very 
narrow  stair-case  to  the  attics,  and  thence  by  a 
ladder  and  through  a  trap-door  to  the  roof  of  the 
Hall.  I  was  now  on  a  level  with  the  crow 
colony,  and  could  see  into  their  nests.  Lean- 
ing over  the  battlements,  and  looking  far  down, 
I  surveyed  the  grounds  laid  out  like  a  map  ;  the 
bright  and  velvet  lawn  closely  girdling  the  gray 
base  of  the  mansion  ;  the  field,  wide  as  a  park, 
dotted  with  its  ancient  timber;  the  wood,  dun 
and  sere,  divided  by  a  path  visibly  overgrown, 
greener  with  moss  than  the  trees  were  with 
foliage  ,  the  church  at  the  gates,  the  road,  the 
tranquil  hills,  all  reposing  in  the  autumn  day's 
sun  ;  the  horizon  bounded  by  a  propitious  sky, 
azure,  marbled  with  pearly  white.  No  feature 
in  the  scene  was  extraordinary,  but  all  was 
pleasing.  When  I  turned  from  it  and  repassed 
the  trap-door,  I  could  scarcely  see  my  way 
down  the  ladder.  The  attic  seemed  black  as  a. 
vault,  compared  with  that  arch  of  blue  air  to 
which  I  had  been  looking  up,  and  to  that  sun- 
lighted  scene  of  grove,  pasture,  and  green  hilJ, 
of  which  the  Hall  was  the  center,  and  over 
which  I  had  been  gazing  with  delight. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  stayed  behind  a  moment  to 
fasten  the  trap-door ;  I,  by  dint  of  groping, 
found  the  outlet  from  the  attic,  and  proceeded 
to  descend  the  narrow  garret  stair-case.  I  lin- 
gered in  the  long  passage  to  which  this  led, 
separating  the  front  and  back  rooms  of  the  third 
story  ;  narrow,  low,  and  dim,  with  Only  one  lit- 
tle window  at  the  far  end,  and  looking,  with 
its  two  rows  of  small  black  doors  all  shut,  like 
a  corridor  in  some  Bluebeard's  castle. 

While  I  paced  softly  on,  the  last  sound  I  ex- 


42 


JANE  EYRE 


pected  to  hear  in  so  still  a  region,  a  laugh, 
struck  my  ear.  It  was  a  curious  laugh ;  dis- 
tinct, formal,  mirthless.  I  stopped  ;  the  sound 
ceased,  only  for  an  instant ;  it  began  again, 
louder ;  for,  at  first,  though  distinct,  it  was  very 
low.  It  passed  off  in  a  clamorous  peal  that 
seemed  to  wake  an  echo  in  every  lonely  cham- 
ber;  though  it  originated  but  in  one,  and  I 
could  have  pointed  out  the  door  whence  the  ac- 
cents issued. 

"Mrs.  Fairfax!"  I  called  out;  for  I  now 
heard  her  descending  the  great  stairsc  "  Did 
you  hear  that  loud  laugh  1     Who  is  it  V 

"  Some  of  the  servants  very  likely,"  she  an- 
swered;  "perhaps  Grace  Poole." 

"Did  you  hear  if!"  I  again  inquired. 

"  Yes,  plainly  :  I  often  hear  her ;  she  sews 
in  one  of  thpse  rooms.  Sometimes  Leah  is 
with  her ;  they  are  frequently  noisy  together." 

The  laugh  was  repeated  in  its  low,  syllabic 
tone,  and  terminated  in  an  odd  murmur, 

"Grace  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fairfax. 

I  really  did  not  expect  any  Grace  to  answer  ; 
for  the  laugh  was  as  tragic,  as  preternatural  a 
laugh  as  any  I  ever  heard  ;  and,  but  that  it  was 
high  noon,  and  that  no  circumstance  of  ghbst- 
liness  accompanied  the  curious  cachination, 
but  that  neither  scene  nor  season  favored  fear, 
I  should  have  been  superstitiously  afraid.  How- 
ever, the  event  showed  me  I  was  a  fool  for  en- 
tertaining a  sense  even  of  surprise. 

The  door  nearest  me  opened,  and  a  servant 
came  out — a  woman  of  between  thirty  and  for- 
ty ;  a  set,  square-made  figure,  red-haired,  and 
with  a  hard,  plain  face ;  any  apparition  less 
romantic  or  less  ghostly  could  scarcely  be  con- 
ceived. 

"Too  much  noise,  Grace,"  said  Mrs.  Fair- 
fax. "  Remember  directions  !"  Grace  court- 
esied  silently  and  went  in. 

"  She  is  a  person  we  have  to  sew  and  assist 
Leah  in  her  housemaid's  work,"  continued  the 
widow ;  "  not  altogether  unobjectionable  in  some 
points,  but  she  does  well  enough.  By-the-by, 
how  have  you  got  on  with  your  new  pupil  this 
morning  V 

The  conversation,  thus  turned  on  Adele,  con- 
tinued till  we  reached  the  light  and  cheerful 
region  below.  Adele  came  running  to  meet  us 
in  the  hall,  exclaiming  ; 

"Mesdames,  vous  etes  servies  !"  adding 
"  J'ai  bien  faim,  raoi!" 

We  found  dinner  ready,  and  waiting  for  us  in 
Mrs.  Fairfax's  room. 


:)HAPTER  XII. 


The  promise  of  a  smooth  career,  whioli  my 
first  calm  introduction  to  Thornfield  Hall  seem- 
ed to  pledge,  was  Sot  belied  on  a  longer  ac- 
quaintance with  the  place  and  its  inmates. 
Mrs.  Fairfax  turned  out  to  be  what  she  appear- 
ed, a  placid-tempered,  kind-natured  woman,  of 
competent  education  and  average  intelligence. 
My  pupil  was  a  lively  child,  who  had  been  spoil- 
ed and  indulged,  and,  therefgre,  was  sometimes 
.wayward;  but,  as  she  was  committed  entirely 
to  my  care,  and  no  injudicious  interference  from 
any  quarter  ever  thwarted  my  plans  for  her  im- 
provement, she  soon  forgot  her  litltle  freaks, 
and  became  obedient  and  teachable.     She  had 


no  great  talents,  no  marked  traits  of  character 
no  peculiar  development  of  feeling  or  taste 
which  raised  her  one  inch  above  the  ordinary 
level  of  childhood  ;  but  neither  had  she  any  de- 
ficiency or  vice  which  sunk  her  below  it.  She 
made  reasonable  progress,  entertained  for  me 
a  vivacious,  though,  perhaps,  not  very  profound 
affection,  and  by  her  simplicity,  gay  prattle,  and 
efforts  to  please,  inspired  me,  in  return,  with  a 
degree  of  attachment  suflBcient  to  make  us  both 
content  in  each  other's  society. 

This,  par  parenthese,  will  be  thought  cool  lan- 
guage by  persons  who  entertain  solemn  doc- 
trines about  the  angelic  nature  of  children,  and 
the  duty  of  those  charged  with  their  education 
to  conceive  for  them  an  idolatrous  devotion  : 
but  I  am  not  writing  to  flatter  parental  egotism, 
to  echo  cant,  or  prop  up  humbug  ;  I  am  merely 
telling  the  truth.  I  felt  a  conscientious  solici- 
tude for  Adele's  welfare  and  progress,  and  a 
quiet  liking  to  her  little  self,  just  as  I  cherished 
toward  Mrs.  Fairfax  a  thankfulness  for  her  kind- 
ness, and  a  pleasure  in  her  society  proportionate 
to  the  tranquil  regard  she  had  for  me,  and  the 
moderation  of  her  mind  and  cliaracter. 

Any  body  may  blame  me  who  likes,  when  I 
add,  further,  that,  now  and  then,  when  I  took 
a  walk  by  myself  in  the  grounds — when  I  went 
down  to  the  gates  and  looked  through  them 
along  the  road — or  when,  while  Adele  played 
with  her  nurse,  and  Mrs.  Fairfax  made  jellies 
in  the  store-room,  I  climbed  the  three  stair- 
cases, raised  the  trap-door  of  the  attic,  and,  hav- 
ing reached  the  leads,  looked  out  afar  over  se- 
questered field  and  hill,  and  along  dim  sky-line  : 
that  then  I  longed  for  a  power  of  vision  which 
might  overpass  that  limit ;  which  might  reach 
the  busy  world,  towns,  regions  full  of  life  I  had 
heard  of  but  never  seen  :  that  then  I  desired 
more  of  practical  experience  than  I  possessed  ; 
more  of  intercourse  with  my  kind,  of  acquaint- 
ance with  variety  of  character,  than  was  here 
within  my  reach.  I  valued  what  was  good  in 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  and  what  was  good  in  Adele  ; 
but  I  believed  in  the  existence  of  other  and 
more  vivid  kinds  of  goodness,  and  what  I  be- 
lieved in  I  wished  to  behold. 

Who  blames  me  !  Many,  no  doubt;  and  I 
shall  be  called  discontented.  I  could  not  help 
it :  the  restlessness  was  in  my  nature  ;  if  agi- 
tated me  to  pain  sometimes.  Then  my  sole 
relief  was  to  walk  along  the  corridor  of  the 
third  story,  backward  and  forward,  safe  in  the 
silence  and  solitude  of  the  spot,  and  allow  my 
mind's  eye  to  dwell  on  whatever  bright  visions 
rose  before  it — and  certainly  ihey  were  many 
and  glowing  ;  to  let  my  heart  be  heaved  by  the 
exultant  movement  wliich,  while  it  swelled  it 
in  trouble,  expanded  it  with  life  ;  and,  best  of 
all,  to  open  my  inward  ear  to  a  tale  that  was 
never  ended — a  tale  my  iinagination  created, 
and  narrated  continuously,  quickened  with  all 
of  incident,  life,  fire,  feeling,  that  I  desired  and 
had  not  in  my  actual  existence. 

It  is  vain  to  say  human  beings  ought  to  be 
satisfied  with  tranquillity  :  they  must  have  ac- 
tion ;  and  they  will  make  it  if  Ihcy  can  not  find 
it.  Millions  are  condemned  to  a  stiller  doom 
than  mine,  and  millions  are  in  silent  revolt 
against  their  lot.  Nobody  knows  how  many 
rebellions,  besides  political  rebellions,  ferment  in 
the  masses  of  life  which  people  earth.     Women 


JANE.  EYRE. 


43 


are  supposed  to  be  very  calm  generally  :  but 
women  feel  just  as  men  feel ;  they  need  exer- 
cise for  their  faculties,  and  a  field  for  their  ef- 
forts as  much  as  their  brothers  do  ;  they  suffer 
from  too  rigid  a  restraint,  too  absolute  a  stag- 
nation, precisely  as  men  would  suffer  ;  and  it  is 
narrow-minded  in  their  more  privileged  fellow- 
creatures  to  say  that  they  ought  to  confine 
themselves  to  making  puddings  and  knitting 
stockings,  to  playing  on  the  piano  and  embroid- 
ering bags.  It  is  thoughtless  to  condemn  them, 
or  laugh  at  them  if  they  seek  to  do  more  or 
learn  more  than  custom  has  pronounced  neces- 
sary for  their  sex. 

When  thus  alone,  I  not  unfrequently  heard 
Grace  Poole's  laugh  :  the  same  —  the  same 
peal,  the  same  low,  slow  ha  !  ha  !  which,  when 
first  heard,  had  thrilled  me  :  I  heard,  too,  her 
eccentric  murmurs ;  stranger  than  her  laugh. 
There  were  days  when  she  was  quite  silent ; 
but  there  were  others  when  I  could  not  account 
for  the  sounds  she  made.  Sometimes  I  saw 
her :  she  would  come  out  of  her  room  with  a 
basin,  or  a  plate,  or  a  tray  in  her  hand,  go 
down  to  the  kitchen  and  shortly  return,  gen- 
erally (oh  romantic  reader,  forgive  me  for  tell- 
ing the  plain  truth  I)  bearing  a  pot  of  porter. 
Her  appearance  always  acted  as  a  damper  to 
the  curiosity  raised  by  her  oral  oddities  ;  hard- 
featured  and  staid,  she  had  no  point  to  which 
interest  could  attach.  I  made  some  attempts 
to  draw  her  into  conversation,  but  she  seemed 
a  person  of  few  words  :  a  monosyllabic  reply 
usually  cut  short  every  effort  of  that  sort. 

The  other  members  of  the  household,  viz., 
John  and  his  wife",  Leah  t|je  housemaid,  and 
Sophie  the  French  nurse,  were  decent  people, 
but  in  no  respect  remarkable  :  with  Sophie  I 
used  to  talk  French,  and  sometimes  1  asked  her 
questions  about  her  native  country  ;  but  she 
was  not  of  a  descriptive  or  narrative  turn,  and 
generally  gave  such  vapid  and  confused  an- 
swers as  were  calculated  rather  to  check  than 
encourage  inquiry. 

October,  November,  December  passed  away. 
One  afternoon  in.  January,  Mrs.  Fairfax  had 
begged  a  holyday  for  Adele,  because  she  had  a 
cold  ;  and,  as  Adele  seconded  the  request  with 
an  ardor  that  reminded  me  how  precious  occa- 
sional holydays  had  been  to  me  in  my  own 
childhood,  I  accorded  it,  deeming  that  I  did 
well  in  showing  pliability  on  the  point.  It  was 
a  fine,  calm  day,  though  very  cold  ;  I  was  tired 
of  sitting  still  in  the  library  through  a  whole 
long  morning  :  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  just  written  a 
letter  which  was  waiting  to  be  posted,  so  I  put 
on  my  bonnet  and  cloak  and  volunteered  to 
carry  it  to  Hay ;  the  distance,  two  miles, 
would  be  a  pleasant  winter  afternoon  walk. 
Having  seen  Adele  comfortably  seated  in  her 
little  chair  by  Mrs.  Fairfax's  parlor  fireside,  and 
given  her  her  best  wax  doll  (which  I  usually 
kept  enveloped  m  silver  paper  in  a  drawer)  to 
play  with,  and  a  story-book  for  change  of 
amusement ;  and  having  replied  to  her  "  Re- 
venez  bientdt,  ma  bonne  amie,  ma  chere  Ma- 
demoiselle Jeannette"  with  a  kiss,  I  set  out. 

The  ground  was  hard,  the  air  was  still,  my 
Toad  was  lonely  ;  I  walked  fast  till  I  got  warm, 
and  then  I  walked  slowly  to  enjoy  and  analyze 
the  species  of  pleasure  brooding  for  me  in  the 
hour  and  situation.     It  was  three  o'clock  ;  the 


church-bell  tolled  as  I  passed  under  the  belfry ; 
the  charm  of  the  hour  lay  in  its  approaching 
dimness,  in  the  low-gliding  and  pale-beaming 
sun.  I  was  a  mile  from  Thornfield,  in  a  lane 
noted  for  wild  roses  in  summer,  for  nuts  and 
blackberries  in  autumn,  and  even  now  pos- 
sessing a  few  coral  treasures  in  hips  and  haws; 
but  whose  best  winter  delight  lay  in  its  utter 
solitude  and  leafless  repose.  If  a  breath  of  air 
stirred,  it  made  no  sound  here  ;  for  there  was 
not  a  holly,  not  an  evergreen  to  rustle,  and 
the  stripped  hawthorn  and  hazel  bushes  were 
as  still  as  the  white,  worn  stones  which  cause- 
wayed the  middle  of  the  path.  Far  and  wide, 
on  each  side,  there  were  only  fields,  where  no 
cattle  now  browsed ;  and  the  little  brown 
birds  which  stirred  occasionally  in  the  hedge 
looked  like  single  russet  leaves  that  had  for- 
gotten to  drop. 

This  lane  inclined  up-hill  all  the  way  to  Hay: 
having  reached  the  middle,  I  sat  down  on  a 
stile  which  led  thence  into  a  field.  Gathering 
my  mantle  about  me  and  sheltering  my  hands 
in  my  muff,  I  did  not  feel  the  cold,  though  it 
froze  keenly — as  was  attested  by  a  sheet  of 
ice  covering  the  causeway,  where  a  little 
brooklet,  now  congealed,  had  overflowed  after 
a  rapid  thaw  some  days  since.  From  my  seat 
I  could  look  down  on  Thornfield  :  the  gray  and 
battlemented  hall  was  the  principal  object'in  the 
vale  below  me ;  its  woods  and  dark  rookery 
rose  against  the  west.  I  lingered  till  the  sun 
went  down  among  the  trees,  and  sunk  crim- 
son and  clear  behind  them.    I  turned  eastward. 

On  the  hill-top  above  me  sat  the  rising 
moon  ;  pale  yet  as  a  cloud,  but  brightening 
momently :  she  looked  over  Hay,  which,  half 
lost  in  trees,  sent  up  a  blue  smoke  from  its 
few  chimneys  ;  it  was  y€t  a  mile  distant,  but 
in  the  absolute  hush  I  could  hear  plainly  its 
thin  murmurs  of  life.  My  ear,  too,  felt  the  flow 
of  currents  ;  in  what  dales  and  depths  I  could 
not  tell :  but  there  were  many  hills  beyond 
Hay,  and  doubtless  many  becks  threading  their 
passes.  That  evening  calm  betrayed  alike  the 
tinkle  of  the  nearest  streams,  the  sough  of  the 
most  remote. 

A  rude  noise  broke  on  these  fine  ripplings 
and  whisperings,  at  once  so  far  away  and  so 
clear :  a  positive  tramp,  tramp ;  a  metallic 
clatter,  which  effaced  the  soft  wave-wander- 
ings ;  as,  in  a  picture,  the  solid  mass  of  a  crag, 
or  the  rough  boles  of  a  great  oak,  drawn  in 
dark  and  strong  on  the  foreground,  efface  the 
aerial  distance  of  azure  hill,  sunny  horizon  and 
blended  clouds,  where  tint  melts  into  tint. 

The  din  was  on  the  causeway  :  a  horse  was 
coming ;  the  windings  of  the  lane  yet  hid  it, 
but  It  approached.  1  was  just  leaving  the  stile; 
yet  as  the  path  was  narrow,  I  sat  still  to  let  it 
go  by.  In  those  days  I  was  young,  and  all 
sorts  of  fancies,  bright  and  dark,  tenanted  my 
mind  :  the  memories  of  nursery  stores  were 
there  among  other  rubbish ;  and  when  they 
recurred,  maturing  youth  added  to  them  a 
vigor  and  vividness  beyond  what  childhood 
could  give.  As  this  horse  approached,  and  as 
I  watched  for  it  to  appear  through  the  dusk, 
I  remembered  certain  of  Bessie's  tales  wherein 
figured  a  North  of  England  spirit,  called  a 
"  Gytra.sh  ;"  which,  in  the  form  of  horse,  mule, 
or  large  dog,  haunted  solitary  ways,  and  some- 


44 


JANE  EYRE. 


times   came   upon    belated   travelers,   as   this 
horse  was  now  coming  upon  me. 

It  was  very  near,  but  not  yet  in  sight,. when, 
in  addition  to  the  tramp,  tramp,  I  heard  a  rush 
under  the  hedge,  and  close  down  by  the  hazel 
stems  glided   a   great   dog,  whose  black   and 
white  color  made  him  a  distinct  object  against 
the  trees.     It  was  exactly  one  mask  of  Bessie's 
"  Gytrash" — a  lion-like  creature  with  long  hair 
and    a   huge   head :    it   passed   me.  however, 
quietly  enough  ;    not  staying  to  look  up,  with 
strange  pretercanine  eyes,  in  my  face,  as  I  half 
expected  it  would.     The  horse  followed — a  tall 
steed,  and  on  its  back  a  rider.     The  man,  the 
human  being,  broke  the  spell  at  once.     Nothing 
ever  rode  the  "  Gytrash:"  it  was  always  alone; 
and  goblins,  to  my  notions,  though  they  might 
tenant   the   dumb   carcasses   of  beasts,  could 
scarce    covet    shelter    in    the    commonplace 
human  form.     No  "  Gytrash"  was  this— only  a 
traveler  taking  the  short  cut  to  Millcote.     He 
passed,  and  I   went   on ;  a  few  steps,  and  I 
turned  :  a  sliding  sound  and  an  exclamation  of 
"What  the  deuce  is  to  do  now?"  and  a  clatter- 
ing tumble,  arrested  my  attention.     Man  and 
horse  were   down  ;  they  had  slipped   on   the 
sheet  of  ice  which  glazed  the  causeway.     The 
dog  came  bounding  back,  and  seeing  his  master 
in  a  predicament,  and  hearing  the  horse  groan, 
barked  till  the  evening  hills  echoed  the  sound  ; 
which  was  deep  in  proportion  to  his  magnitude. 
He  snuffed  round  the  prostrate  group,  and  then 
he  ran  up  to  me ;  it  was  all  he  could  do — there 
was  no  other  help  at  hand  to  summon.   I  obeyed 
him,  and  walked  down  to  the  traveler,  by  this 
time  struggling  himself  free  of  his  steed.     His 
efforts  were  so  vigorous,  I  thought  he  could  not 
be  much  hurt ;  but  I  asked  him  the  question — 
"  Are  you  injured,  sir  V' 
I  think  he  was  swearing,  but  am  not  certain  ; 
however,   he  was   pronouncing  some   formula 
which  prevented  him  from  replying  to  me  di- 
rectly. 

"  Can  1  do  any  thing  V  I  asked  again.  ' 
"You  must  just  stand  on  one  side,"  he 
answered  as  he  rose,  first  to  his  knees,  and 
then  to  his  feet.  I  did  ;  whereupon  began  a 
heaving,  stamping,  clattering  process,  accom- 
panied by  a  barking  and  baying,  which  removed 
me  effectually  some  yards  distance ;  but  I 
would  not  be  driven  quite  away  till  I  saw  the 
event.  This  was  finally  fortunate ;  the  horse 
was  re-established,  and  the  dog  was  silenced 
with  a  "  Down,  Pilot !"  The  traveler  now 
stooping,  felt  his  foot  and  leg,  as  if  trying 
whether  they  were  sound  ;  apparently  some- 
thing ailed  them,  for  he  halted  to  the  stile 
whence  I  had  just  risen,  and  sat  down. 

I  was  in  the  mood  for  being  useful,  or  at 
least  officious,  I  think,  for  I  now  drew  near 
him  again. 

"  If  you  are  hurt,  and  want  help,  sir,  I  can 
fetch  some  one,  either  from  Thornfield  Hall  or 
from  Hay." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  shall  do :  I  have  no  broken 
bones — only  a  sprain  ;"  and  again  he  stood  up 
and  tried  his  foot,  but  the  result  extorted  an 
involuntary  "  Ugh !" 

Somelhmg  of  daylight  still  lingered,  and  the 
moon  was  waxing  bright ;  I  could  see  him 
plainly.  His  figure  was  enveloped  in  a  riding- 
cloak,  fur-collared,   and    sieel-clasped ;  its  de- 


tails were  not  apparent,  but  I  traced  the  general 
points  of  middle  height,  and  considerable  breadth 
of  chest.  He  had  a  dark  face,  with  stern  feat- 
ures and  a  heavy  brow  ;  his  eyes  and  gathered 
eyebrows  looked  ireful  and  thwarted  just  now  ; 
he  was  past  youth,  but  had  not  reached  mid- 
dle age  :  perhaps  he  might  be  thirty-five.  I 
felt  no  fear  of  him,  and  but  little  shyness.  Had 
he  been  a  handsome,  heroic-looking  young 
gentleman,  I  should  not  have  dared  to  stand 
thus  questioning  him  against  his  will,  and  offer- 
ing my  services  unasked.  I  had  hardly  ever 
seen  a  handsome  youth ;  never  in  my  life 
spoken  to  one.  I  had  a  theoretical  reverence 
and  homage  for  beauty,  elegance,  gallantry, 
fascination  ;  hut  had  I  met  those  qualities  in- 
carnate in  masculine  shape,,  I  should  have 
known  instinctively  that  they  neither  had  nor 
could  have  sympathy  with  any  thing  in  me, 
and  should  have  shunned  them  as  one  would 
fire,  lightning,  or  any  thing  else  that  is  bright 
but  antipathetic. 

If  even  this  stranger  had  smiled  and  been 
good-humored  to  me  when  I  addressed  him  ; 
•if  he  had  put  off  my  offer  of  assistance  gayly 
and  with  thanks,  I  should  have  gone  on  my 
way  and  not  felt  any  vocation  to  renew  in- 
quiries ;  but  the  frown,  the  roughness  of  the 
traveler  set  me  at  my  ease  ;  I  retained  my 
station  when  he  waved  to  me  to  go,  and  an- 
nounced— 

"  I  can  not  think  of  leaving  you,  sir,  at  so 
late  an  hour,  in  this  solitary  lane,  till  I  see  you 
are  fit  to  mount  your  horse." 

He  looked  at  me  when  I  said  this  :  he  had 
hardly  turned  his  eyes  in  my  direction  before. 

"  I  should  think  you  ought  to  be  at  home 
yourself,"  said  he,  "if  you  have  a  home  in  this 
neighborhood  ;  where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"  From  just  below  ;  and  I  am  not  at  all  afraid 
of  being  out  late  when  it  is  moonlight :  I  will 
run  over  to  Hay  for  you  with  pleasure,  if  you 
wish  it — indeed,  I  am  going  there -to  post  a 
letter." 

"You  live  just  below — do  you  mean  at  that 
house  with  the  battlements  V  pointing  to  Thorn- 
field  Hall,  on   which  the  moon  cast  a  hoary 
gleam,  bringing  it  out  distinct  and  pale  from 
the  woods,  that,  by  contrast  with  the  western 
sky,  now  seemed  one  mass  of  shadow, 
"  Yes,  sir." 
"  Whose  house  is  it?" 
"  Mr.  Rochester's." 
"  Do  you  know  Mr.  Rochester  i" 
"No,  I  have  never  seen  him.  ' 
"  He  is  not  resident  then  !" 
"No." 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  he  is^" 
"  I  can  not." 

"  You  are  not  a  servant  at  the  Hall,  of  course* 
You  are — "  He  stopped,  ran  his  eye  over 
my  dress,  which,  as  usual,  was  quite  simple: 
a  black  merino  cloak,  a  black  beaver  bonnet; 
neither  of  them  half  fine  enough  fur  a  lady's 
maid.  He  seemed  puzzled  to  decide  what  I 
was  :  I  helped  him. 
"  I  am  the  governess." 
"  Ah,  the  governess  !"  he  repeated  ;  "deuce 
take  me  if  I  had  not  forgotten  !  The  govern- 
ess !"  and  again  my  raiment  underwent  scruti- 
ny. In  two  minutes  he  rose  from  the  stile  ;  his 
face  expressed  pain  when  he  tried  to  move 


JANE  EYRE. 


45 


"  I  can  not  commission  you  to  fetch  help,"  he 
said,  "  but  you  may  help  me  a  little  yourself,  if 
you  will  be  so  kind." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"You have  not  an  umbrella  that  I  can  use  as 
a  stick  1" 

"No." 

"  Try  to  get  hold  of  my  horse's  bridle  and 
'.lead  him  to  me  ;  you  are  not  afraid  1" 

I  should  have  been  afraid  to  touch  a  horse 
when  alone,  but  when  told  to  do  it,  I  was  dis- 
posed to  obey.  I  put  down  my  muff  on  the 
stile,  and  went  up  to  the  tall  steed  ;  I  endeav- 
ored to  catch  the  t)i-idle,  but  it  was  a  spirited 
thing,  and  would  not  let  me  come  near  its 
head  ;  I  made  effort  on  effort,  though  in  vain  : 
meantime,  I  was  mortally  afraid  of  its  tramp- 
ling fore-feet.  The  traveler  waited  and  watched 
for  some  time,  and  at  last  he  laughed. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  the  mountain  will  never 
be  brought  to  Mahomet,  so  all  you  can  do  is 
to  aid  Mahomet  to  go  to  the  mountain  ;  I  must 
beg  of  you  to  come  here." 

I  came.  "  Excuse  me,"  he  continued  ;  "  ne- 
cessity compels  me  to  make  you  useful."  He 
laid  a  heavy  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  leaning 
on  me  with  some  stress,  limped  to  his  horse. 
Having  once  caught  the  bridle,  he  mastered  it 
directly,  and  sprung  to  his  saddle,  grimacing 
grimly  as  he  made  the  effort,  for  it  wrenched 
his  sprain. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  releasing  his  under  lip  from 
a  hard  bite,  "just  hand  me  my  whip;  it  lies 
there  under  the  hedge." 

I  sought  it  and  found,  it. 

"  Thank  you  ;  now  make  haste  with  the  let- 
ter to  Hay,  and  return  as  fast  as  you  can." 

A  touch  of  a  'spurred  heel  made  his  horse 
first  start  and  rear,  and  then  bound  away  ;  the 
dog  rushed  in  his  traces  ;  all  three  vanished 

"  Like  heath  that  in  the  wildernesr; 
The  wild  wind  whirls  away." 

I  took  up  my  muff  and  walked  on.     The  inci- 
dent had  occurred  and  was  gone  for  me  ;  it  was 
an  incident  of  no  moment,  no  romance,  no  in- 
terest in  a  sense  ;  yet  it  marked  with  change 
one  single  hour  of  a  monotonous  life.     My  help 
had  been  needed  and  claimed  ;  I  had  given  it ; 
I  was  pleased  to  have  done  something  ;  trivial, 
*  transitory  though  the  deed  was,  it  was  yet  an 
active  thing,  and  I  was  weary  of  an  existence 
all  passive.     The  new  face,  too,  was  like  a  new 
picture  introduced  to  the  gallery  of  memory  ; 
and  it  was  dissimilar  to  all  the  others  hanging 
there  ;  firstly,  because  it  was  masculine  ;  and 
.  secondly,  because  it  was  dark,  strong  and  stern. 
I  had  it  still  before  me  when  I  entered  Hay, 
and  slipped  the  letter  into  the  post-office  ;  I  saw 
it  as  I  walked  fast  down-hill  all  the  way  home. 
When  I  came  to  the  stile  I  stopped  a  minute, 
looked  round  and  listened,  with  an  idea  that  a 
horse's  hoofs  might  ring  on  the  ckuseway  again, 
and  that  a  rider  in  a  cloak,  and  a  Gytrash-like 
Newfoundland  dog,  might  be  again  apparent ;  I 
saw  only  the  hedge  and  a  pollard  vvillpw  before 
me,  rising  up  still  and  straight   to  meet  the 
moonbeams  ;  I  heard  only  the  faintest  waft  of 
wind,  roaming   fitful   among  the  trees   round 
Thornfield,  a  mile  distant ;  and  when  I  glanced 
down  in  the  direction  of  the  murmur,  my  eye, 
traversing  the  hall-front,  caught  a  light  kindling 


in  a  window  :  it  reminded  me  that  I  was  late, 
and  I  hurried  on. 

I  did  not  like  re-entering  Thornfield.  To  pass 
its  threshold  was  to  return  to  stagnation ;  to 
cross  the  silent  hall,  to  ascend  the  darksome 
stair-case,  to  seek  my  own  lonely  little  room, 
and  then  to  meet  tranquil  Mrs.  Fairfax,  and 
spend  the  long  winter  evening  with  her  and 
her  only,  was  to  quell  wholly  the  faint  excite- 
ment wakened  by  my  walk — to  slip  again  over 
my  faculties  the  viewless  fetters  of  a  uniform 
and  too  still  existence  ;  of  an  existence  whose 
very  privileges  of  security  and  ease  I  was  be- 
coming incapable  of  appreciating.  What  good 
it  would  have  done  me  at  that  time  to  have 
been  tossed  in  the  storms  of  an  uncertain, 
struggling  life,  and  to  have  been  taught  by 
rough  and  bitter  exjterience  to  long  for  the  calm 
amid  which  I  now  repined !  Yes,  just  as 
much  good  as  it  would  do  a  man  tired  of  sitting 
still  in  a  "  too  easy  chair"  to  take  a  long  walk  ; 
and  just  as  natural  was  the  wish  to  stir,  under 
my  circumstances,  as  it  would  be  under  his. 

I  lingered  at  the  gates ;  I  lingered  on  the 
lawn  ;  I  paced  backward  and  forward  on  the 
pavement ;  the  shutters  of  the  glass  door  were 
closed  ;  I  could  not  see  into  the  interior  ;  and 
both  my  eyes  and  spirit  seemed  drawn  from  the 
gloomy  house — from  the  gray  hollow  filled  with 
rayless  cells,  as  it  appeared  to  me — to  that  sky 
expanded  before  me — a  blue  sea  absolved  from 
taint  of  cloud  ;  the  moon  ascending  it  in  solemn 
march  ;  her  orb  seeming  to  look  up  as  she  left 
the  hill-tops,  from  behind  which  she  had  come, 
far  and  farther  below  her,  and  aspired  to  the 
zenith,  midnight-dark  in  its  fathomless  depth 
and  measureless  distance  ;  and  for  those  trem- 
bling stars  that  followed  her  course,  they  made 
my  heart  tremble,  my  veins  glow  when  I  viewed 
them.  Little  things  recall  us  to  earth;  the 
clock  struck  in  the  hall ;  that  suflSced — I  turned 
from  moon  and  stars,  opened  a  side-door  and 
went  in. 

The  hall  was  not  dark,  nor  yet  was  it  lighted 
only  by  the  high- hung  bronze  lamp ;  a  warm 
glow  suffused  both  it  and  the  lower  steps  of  the 
oak  stair-case.  This  ruddy  shine  issued  from 
the  great  dining-room,  whose  two-leaved  door 
stood  open  and  showed  a  genial  fire  in  the 
grate,  glancing  on  marble  hearth  and  brass  fire- 
irons,  and  revealing  purple  draperies  and  pol- 
ished furniture  in  the  most  pleasant  radiance. 
It  revealed,  too,  a  group  near  the  mantle-piece  ; 
I  had  scarcely  caught  it,  and  scarcely  become 
aware  of  a  cheerful  mingling  of  voices,  among 
which  I  seemed  to  distinguish  the  tones  of 
Adele,  when  the  door  closed. 

I  hastened  to  Mrs.  Fairfax's  room ;  there 
was  a  fire  there,  too,  but  no  candle,  and  no 
Mrs.  Fairfax.  Instead,  all  alone,  sitting  upright 
on  the  rug  and  gazing  with  gravity  at  the  blaze, 
I  beheld  a  great  black  and  white,  long-haired 
dog,  just  like  the  Gytrash  of  the  lane.  It  was 
so  like  it  that  I  went  forward  and  said,  "  Pilot." 
and  the  thing  got  u|i  and  came  to  me  and  snuff- 
ed me.  I  caressed  him,  and  he  wagged  his 
great  tail ;  but  he  looked  an  eerie  creature  to 
be  alone  with,  and  I  could  not  tell  whence  he 
had  come.  I  rung  the  bell,  for  I  wanted  a  can- 
dle, and  I  wanted,  too,  to  get  an  account  of  this 
visitant.     Leah  entered. 

"What  dog  is  thisi" 


46 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  He  came  with  master." 
"  With  whoml"' 

"  With  master — Mr.  Rochester — he  is  just 
arrived." 

"  Indeed — and  is  Mrs.  Fairfax  with  him  V 
"  Yes,  and   Miss  Adela — they  are   in   the 
dining-room,  and  John  is  gone  for  a  surgeon, 
for  master  has  had  an  accident — his  horse  fell 
and  his  ankle  is  sprained." 

"  Did  the  horse  fall  in  Hay-lane  1" 
"  Yes,  coming  down  hill — it  slipped  on  some 
ice." 

"  Ah  !  bring  me  a  candle,  will  you,  Leah?" 
Leah  brought  it ;  she  entered,  followed  by 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  who  repeated  the  news  ;  adding 
that  Mr.  Carter,  the  surgeon,  was  come  and  was 
now  with  Mr.  Rochester  ;  then  she  hurried  out 
to  give  orders  about  tea,  and  I  went  up  stairs 
to  take  off  my  things. 


CHAPTER.  XHL 

Mr.  Rochester,  it  seems,  by  the  surgeon's 
orders,  went  to  bed  early  that  night ;  nor  did 
he  rise  soon  next  morning.  When  he  did  come 
down  it  was  to  attend  to  business  ;  his  agent 
and  some  of  his  tenants  were  arrived,  and 
waiting  to  speak  with  him. 

Adele  and  I  had  now  to  vacate  the  library ; 
it  would  be  in  daily  requisition  as  a  reception- 
room  for  callers.  A  fire  was  lighted  in  an  apart- 
ment up  stairs,  and  there  I  carried  our  books, 
and  arranged  it  for  the  future  school-room.  I 
discerned  in  the  course  of  the  morning  that 
Thornfield  Hall  was  a  changed  place ;  no  lon- 
ger silent  as  a  church,  it  echoed  every  hour  or 
two  to  a  knock  at  the  door  or  a  clang  of  the 
bell ;  steps,  too,  often  traversed  the  hall,  and 
new  voices  spoke  in  different  keys  below ;  a 
rill  from  the  outer  world  was  flowing  through 
It — it  had  a  master  ;  for  my  part,  I  liked  it  better. 

Adele  was  not  easy  to  teach  that  day ;  she 
could  not  apply,  she  kept  running  to  the  door 
and  looking  over  the  banisters  to  see  if  she 
could  get  a  glimpse  of  Mr.  Rochester  ;  then  she 
coined  pretexts  to  go  down  stairs,  in  order,  as 
I  shrewdly  suspected,  to  visit  the  library, 
where  I  knew  she  was  not  wanted ;  then, 
when  I  got  a  little  angry,  and  made  her  sit  still, 
she  continued  to  talk  incessantly  of  her  "  ami. 
Monsieur  Edouard  Fairfax  tie  Rochester,'"  as 
she  dubbed  him  (I  had  not  before  heard  his 
prenomens),  and  to  conjecture  what  presents 
he  had  brought  her :  for  it  appears  he  had  inti- 
mated the  night  before  that,  when  his  luggage 
came  from  Millcote,  there  would  be  found 
among  it  a  little  box  m  whose  contents  she 
had  an  interest. 

"Et  cela  doit  signifier,"  said  she,  "qu'il  y 
aura  la  dedans  un  cadeau  pour  moi,ct  pent  etre 
pour  vous,  aussi,  mademoiselle.  Monsieur  a 
parle  de  vous  :  il  m'  a  dcmande  le  nom  de  ma 
gouvernante,  et  si  elle  n'  etait  pas  une  petite 
personne,  assez  mince  et  un  peu  pale.  J"ai  dit 
que  oui :  carc'est  vrai,  n'  est-ce  pas,  mademoi- 
selle !" 

I  and  my  pupil  dined  as  usual  in  Mrs.  Faj^r- 
fax's  parlor  ;  the  afternoon  was  wild  arid 
snowy,  and  we  passed  it  in  the  school-room. 
At  dark  I  allowed  Adele  to  put  away  books  and 
work,  and  to  run  down  stairs  ;  for,  from  the 


comparative  silence  below,  and  from  the  cessa- 
tion of  appeals  to  the  door-bell,  I  conjectured 
that  Mr.  Rochester  was  now  at  liberty.  Left 
alone,  I  walked  to  the  window,  but  nothing  was 
to  be  seen  thence :  twilight  and  snow-flakes  to- 
gether thickened  the  air  and  hid  the  very  shrub* 
on  the  lawn.  I  let  down  the  curtain  and  went 
back  to  the  fireside. 

In  the  clear  embers  I  was  tracing  a  view,  not 
unlike  a  picture  I  remember  to  have  seen  of 
the  castle  of  Heidelberg,  on  the  Rhine,  when 
Mrs.  Fairfax  came  in,  breaking  up  by  her  en- 
trance the  fiery  mosaic  I  had  been  piecing  to- 
gether, and  scattering,  too,  some  heavy,  unwel- 
come thoughts  that  were  beginning  to  throng 
on  my  solitude. 

"  Mr.  Rochester  would  be  glad  if  you  and 
your  pupil  would  take  tea  with  him  in  the 
drawing-room  this  evening,"  said  she ;  "  he 
has  been  so  much  engaged  all  day  that  he 
could  not  ask  to  see  you  before." 

'•  When  IS  his  tea-time  V  I  inquired. 

"  Oh,  at  six  o'clock  :  he  keeps  early  hours  in 
the  country.  You  had  better  change  your  frock 
now  :  I  will  go  with  you  and  fasten  it.  Here  is 
a  candle." 

"Is  it  necessary  to  change  my  frock !'" 

"  Yes,  you  had  better.  I  always  dress  lor  the 
evening  when  Mr.  Rochester  is  here." 

This  additional  ceremony  seemed  somewhat 
stately  ;  however,  I  repaired  to  my  room,  and, 
with  Mrs.  Fairfax's  aid,  replaced  my  black 
stuff  dress  by  one  of  black  silk,  the  best  and 
the  only  additional  one  I  had,  except  one  of 
light  gray,  which,  in  my  Lowood  notions  of  the 
toilet,  I  thought  too  fine  to  be  worn,  except  on 
first-rate  occasions. 

"  You  want  a  brooch,"  sard  Mrs.  Fairfax.  I 
had  a  single  little  pearl  ornament  which  Miss 
Temple  gave  me  as  a  parting  keepsake  ;  I  put 
it  on,  and  then  we  went  down  stairs.  Unused 
as  I  was  to  strangers,  it  was  rather  a  trial  to 
appear,  thus  formally  summoned,  in  Mr.  Roches- 
ter's presence.  I  let  Mrs.  Fairfax  precede  me 
into  the  dining-room,  and  kept  in  her  shade  as 
we  crossed  that  apartment ;  and,  passing  the 
arch,  whose  curtain  was  now  dropped,  entered 
the  elegant  recess  beyond. 

Two  wax  candles  stood  lighted  on  the  table, 
and  two  on  the  mantle-piece ;  basking  in  the 
light  and  heat  of  a  superb  fire  lay  Pilot ;  Adele 
knelt  near  him.  Half  reclined  on  a  couch  ap- 
peared Mr.  Rochester,  his  foot  supported  by 
the  cushion  ;  he  was  looking  at  Adele  and  the 
dog ;  the  fire  shone  full  on  his  face.  I  knew 
my  traveler,  with  his  broad  and  jetty  eyebrows, 
his  square  forehead,  made  squarer  by  the  hori- 
zontal sweep  of  his  black  hair.  I  recognized 
his  decisive  nose,  more  remarkable  for  charac- 
ter than  beauty,  his  full  nostrils,  denoting,  1 
thought,  choler  ;  his  grim  mouth,  chin,  and  jaw 
— yes,  all  three  were  very  grim,  and  no  mis- 
take. His  shape,  now  divested  of  cloak,  I  per- 
ceived harmonized  in  squareness  with  his  phys- 
iognomy :  I  suppose  it  was  a  good  figure  in  the 
athletic  sense  of  the  term,  broad-chested  and 
thin-flanked,  though  neither  tall  nor  graceful. 

Mr.  Rochester  must  have  been  aware  of  the 
entrance  of  Mrs.  Fairfax  and  myself;  but  it  ap- 
peared he  was  not  in  the  mood  to  notice  us,  for 
he  never  lifted  his  head  as  we  approached. 

"  Here  is  Miss  Eyre,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax, 


JANE  EYRE. 


47 


in  her  quiet  way.  He  bowed,  still  not  taking 
his  eyes  from  the  group  of  the  dog  and  child. 

"  Let  Miss  Eyre  be  seated,"  said  he  ;  and 
there  was  something  in  the  forced,  stiff  bow,  in 
the  impatient,  yet  formal  tone,  which  seemed 
further  to  express,  "What  the  deuce  is  it  to 
me  whether  Miss  Eyre  be  there  or  not  1  At 
this  moment  I  am  not  disposed  to  accost  her." 

I  sat  down  quite  disembarrassed.  A  recep- 
tion of  finished  politeness  would  probably  have 
confused  me  :  I  could  not  have  returned  or  re- 
paid it  by  answering  grace  and  elegance  on  my 
part :  but  harsh  caprice  laid  me  under  no  obli- 
gation ;  on  the  contrary,  a  decent  quiescence, 
under  the  freak  of  manner,  gave  me  the  advan- 
tage. Besides,  the  eccentricity  of  the  proceed- 
ing was  piquant :  I  felt  interested  to  see  how 
he  would  go  on. 

He  went  on  as  a  statue  would  ;  that  is,  he 
neither  spoke  nor  moved.  Mrs.  Fairfax  seem- 
ed to  think  It  necessary  that  some  one  should 
be  amiable,  and  she  began  to  talk.  Kindly,  as 
usual — and,  as  usual,  rather  trite — she  con- 
doled with  him  on  the  pressure  of  business  he 
had  had  all  day,  on  the  annoyance  it  must  have 
been  to  him  with  that  painful  sprain  ;  then  she 
commended  his  patience  and  perseverance  in 
going  through  with  it. 

"  Madam,  I  should  like  some  tea,"  was  the 
sole  rejoinder  she  got.  She  hastened  to  ring 
the  bell ;  and,  when  the  tray  came,  she  pro- 
ceeded to  arrange  the  cups,  spoons,  &c.,  with 
assiduous  celerity.  I  and  Adele  went  to  the 
table ;  but  the  master  did  not  leave  his  couch. 

"Will  you  hand  Mr.  Rochester's  cup!"  said 
Mrs.  Fairfax  to  me  ;  "  Adele,  might,  perhaps 
spill  it." 

I  did  as  requested.  As  he  took  the  cup  from 
my  hand,  Adele,  thinking  the  moment  propi- 
tious for  making  a  request  in  my  favor,  cried 
out : 

"  N'est-ce-pas,  Monsieur,  qu'il  y  a  un  cadeau 
pour  Mademoiselle  Eyre,  dans  voire  petit 
coffreV' 

"Who  talks  of  cadeaux  !"  said  he  gruffly; 
"did  you  expect  a  present.  Miss  Eyre!  Are 
you  fond  of  presents  V  and  he  searched  my 
face  with  eyes  that  I  saw  were  dark,  irate,  and 
piercing. 

"I  hardly  know,  sir  ;  I  have  little  experience 
of  them  ;  they  are  generally  thought  pleasant 
things." 

"  Generally  thought !  But  what  do  you 
think  r' 

'•  I  should  be  obliged  to  take  time,  sir,  before 
I  could  give  you  an  answer  worthy  of  your  ac- 
ceptance ;  a  present  has  many  faces  to  it,  has 
it  not  \  and  one  should  consider  all  before  pro- 
nouncing an  opinion  as  to  its  nature." 

"Miss  Eyre,  you  are  not  so  unsophisticated 
as  Adele  ;  she  demands  a  '  cadeau,'  clamorous- 
ly the  moment  she  sees  me — you  beat  about 
the  bush." 

"  Because  I  have  less  confidence  in  my  de- 
serts than  Adele  has  ;  she  can  prefer  the  claim 
of  old  acquaintance,  and  the  right,  too,  of  cus- 
tom ;  for  she  says  you  have  always  been  in  the 
habit  of  giving  her  playthings ;  but  if  I  had  to 
make  out  a  case  I  should  be  puzzled,  since  I 
am  a  stranger  and  have  done  nothing  to  entitle 
me  to  an  acknowledgment." 

"  Oh,   don't  fall  back   on   overmodesty  !     I 


have  examined  Adele,  and  find  you  have  takea 
great  pains  with  her  ;  she  is  not  bright,  she  has 
no  talents,  yet  in  a  short  time  she  has  made 
much  improvement." 

"  Sir,  you  have  now  given  me  my  '  cadeau  •,' 
I  am  obliged  to  you  ;  it  is  the  meed  teachers 
most  covet ;  praise  of  their  pupils'  progress." 

"Humph  !"  said  Mr.  Rochester,  and  he  took 
his  tea  in  silence. 

"Come  to  the  fire,"  said  the  master,  when 
the  tray  was  taken  away  and  Mrs.  Fairfax  had 
settled  into  a  corner  with  her  knitting ;  while 
Adele  was  leading  me  by  the  hand  round  the 
room,  showing  me  the  beautiful  books  and  or- 
naments oh  the  consoles  and  chiffonieres.  We 
obeyed,  as  in  duty  bound.  Adele  wanted  to 
take  a  seat  on  my  knee,  but  she  was  ordered 
to  amuse  herself  with  Pilot. 

"  You  have  been  resident  in  my  house  three 
months  1" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  came  from — 1" 

"From  Lowood  school  in shire." 

"Ah!  a  charitable  concern.  How  long  were 
you  there  V 

"  Eight  years." 

"  Eight  years  !  you  must  be  tenacious  of  life. 
I  thought  half  the  time  in  such  a  place  would 
have  done  up  any  constitution  !  No  wonder 
you  have  rather  the  look  of  another  world.  I 
marveled  where  you  had  got  that  sort  of  face. 
When  you  came  on  me  in  Hay-lane  last  night,. 
I  thought  unaccountably  of  fairy  tales,  and  had 
half  a  mind  to  .demand  whether  you  had  be- 
witched my  horse;  I  am  not  sure  yet.  Who 
are  your  parents?" 

"  I  have  none." 

"  Nor  ever  had,  I  suppose  ;  do  you  remember 
themV' 

"No." 

"  I  thought  not.  And  so  you  were  waiting 
for  your  people  when  you  sat  on  that  stile  1" 

"For,  whom,  sir"!" 

"For  the  men  in  green;  it  was  a  proper 
moonlight  evening  for  them.  Did  I  break 
through  one  of  your  rings,  that  you  spread  that 
damned  ice  on  the  causeway  !" 

I  shook  my  head.  "  The  men  in  green  all 
forsook  England  a  hundred  years  ago,"  said  I, 
speaking  as  seriously  as  he  had  done.  "  And 
not  even  in  Hay-lane  or  the  fields  about  it  could 
you  find  a  trace  of  them.  I  don't  think  either 
summer  or  harvest  or  winter  moon  will  ever 
shine  on  their  revels  more." 

Mrs.  Fairfax  had  dropped  her  knitting,  and 
with  raised  eyebrows  seemed  wondering  what 
sort  of  talk  this  was. 

"Well,"  resumed  Mr.  Rochester,  "if  you 
disown  parents,  you  must  have  some  sort  of 
kinsfolk — uncles  and  aunts  ! 

"  No  ;  none  that  I  ever  saw." 

"  And  your  homel" 

"  I  have  none." 

"  Where  do  your  brothers  and  sisters  live?" 

"  I  have  no  brothers  or  sisters." 

"  Who  recommended  you  to  come  here?" 

"  I  advertised,  and  Mrs.  Fairfax  answered 
my  advertisement." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  good  lady,  who  now  knew 
what  ground  we  were  upon,  "  and  I  am  daily 
thankful  for  the  choice  Providence  led  me  to 
make.     Miss  Eyre  has  been  an  invaluable  coin- 


48 


JANE  EYRE. 


panion  to  me,  and  a  kind  and  careful  teacher  to 
Adele." 

"  Don't  trouble  yourself  to  give  her  a  charac- 
ter," returned  Mr.  Rochester  ;  "eulogiums  will 
not  bias  me — I  shall  judge  for  myself  She  be- 
gan by  felling  my  horse." 

"Sirl"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax. 

"  I  have  to  tlvahk  her  for  this  sprain." 

The  widow  looked  bewildered. 

"  Miss  Eyre,  have  you  ever  lived  in  a  town  1 " 

"No,  sir." 

"Have  you  seen  much  society?" 

"  None  but  (he  pupils  and  teachers  of  Lo- 
■wood,  and  now  the  inmates  of  Thornfield." 

"  Have  you  read  much  1" 

"  Only  such  books  as  fell  in  my  way ;  and 
they  have  not  been  numerous  or  very  learn- 
ed." 

"You  have  lived  the  life  of  a  nun  ;  no  doubt 
you  are  well  drilled  in  religious  forms ;  Brock- 
lehurst,  who,  I  understand,  directs  Lowood,  is 
a  parson,  is  he  not  V 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  girls  probably  worshiped  him  as  a 
convent  full  of  religieuses  would  worship  their 
director." 

"Oh,  no." 

"  You  are  very  cool !  No  !  What !  a  novice 
not  worship  her  priest  1  That  sounds  blasphe- 
mous." 

"  1  disliked  Mr.  Brocklehurst ;  and  I  was  not 
alone  in  the  feeling.  He  is  ^  harsh  man — at 
once  pompous  and  meddling ;  he  cut  off  our 
hair,  and,  for  economy's  sake,  bought  us  bad 
needles  and  thread,  with  which  we  could  hardly 
sew." 

"  That  was  very  false  economy,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  who  now  again  caught  the  drift 
of  the  dialogue. 

"  And  was  that  the  head  and  front  of  his  of- 
fending?" demanded  Mr.  Rochester. 

"  He  starved  us  when  he  had  the  sole  super- 
intendence of  the  provision  department,  before 
the  committee  was  appointed ;  and  he  bored 
us  with  long  lectures  once  a-week,  and  with 
evening  readings  from  books  of  his  own  indit- 
ing, about  sudden  deaths  and  judgments,  which 
made  us  afraid  to  go  to  bed." 

"  What  age  were  you  when  you  went  to  Lo- 
wood 1" 

"  About  ten." 

"  And  you  stayed  there  eight  years ;  you  are 
now,  then,  eighteen?" 

I  assented. 

"  Arithmetic,  you  see,  is  useful ;  without  its 
aid  I  should  hardly  have  been  able  to  guess 
your  age.  It  is  a  point  difficult  to  fix  where 
the  features  and  countenance  are  so  much  at 
variance  as  in  your  case.  And  now,  what  did 
you  learn  at  Lowood  ?     Can  you  play  V 

"  A  little." 

"  Of  course ;  that  is  the  established  answer. 
Go  into  the  library — I  mean,  if  you  please. 
(Excuse  my  tone  of  command ;  I  am  used  to 
say  '  Do  this,'  and  it  is  done  ;  I  can  not  alter 
my  customary  habits  for  one  new  inmate.)  Go, 
then,  into  the  library  ;  take  a  candle  with  you, 
leave  the  door  open,  sit  down  to  the  piano,  and 
play  a  tune." 

I  departed,  obeying  his  directions. 

"Enough  !"  he  called  out  in  a  few  minutes. 
"  You  play  a  little,  1  see  ;  like  any  other  English 


school-girl ;  perhaps  rather  better  than   some 
but  not  well." 

I  closed  the  piano,  and  returned.  Mr.  Roch- 
ester continued : 

"  Adele  showed  me  some  sketches  this  moro- 
ing,  which  she  said  were  yours.  I  don't  know 
whether  they  were  entirely  of  your  doing ; 
probably  a  master  aided  you?" 

"No,  indeed  !"  I  interjected. 

"  Ah  !  that  pricks  pride.  Well,  fetch  me  your 
portfolio,  if  you  can  vouch  for  its  contents  being 
original ;  but  don't  pass  your  word  unless  you 
are  certain — I  can  recognize  patchwork." 

"  Then  I  will  say  nothing,  and  you  shall  judge 
for  yourself,  sir." 

I  brought  the  portfolio  from  the  library". 

"  Approach  the  table,"  said  he  ;  and  I  wheel- 
ed it  to  his  couch.  Adele  and  Mrs.  Fairfax 
drew  near  to  see  the  pictures. 

"  No  crowding,"  said  Mr.  Rochester  ;  "  take 
the  drawings  from  my  hand  as  I  finish  with 
them  ;  but  don't  push  your  faces  up  to  mine." 

He  deliberately  scrutinized  each  sketch  and 
painting.  Three  he  laid  aside  ;  the  others, 
when  he  had  examined  them,  he  swept  from 
him. 

"  Take  them  off  to  the  other  table,  Mrs.  Fair- 
fax," said  he,  "  and  look  at  them  with  Adele  ; 
you"  (glancing  at  me)  "  resume  your  seat,  and 
answer  my  questions.  I  perceive  these  pictures 
were  done  by  the  one  hand :  was  that  hand 
yours?" 

"Yes." 

"And  when  did  you  find  time  to  do  them? 
Theyhave  taken  much  time,  and  some  thought." 

"  I  did  them  in  the  last  two  vacations  I  spent 
at  Lowood,  when  I  had  no  other  occupation." 

"  Where  did  you  get  your  copies  ?" 

"  Out  of  my  head." 

"  That  head  I  see  now  on  your  shoulders  ?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Has  it  other  furniture  of  the  same  kind 
within  ?" 

"  I  should  think  it  may  have  :  I  should  hope 
— better." 

He  spread  the  pictures  before  him,  and  again 
surveyed  them  alternately. 

While  he  is  so  occupied,  I  will  tell  you,  read 
er,  what  they  are  :  and  first,  I  must  premise 
that  they  are  nothing  wonderful.  The  subjects 
had,  indeed,  risen  vividly  on  my  mind.  As  I 
saw  them  with  the  spiritual  eye,  before  I  at- 
tempted to  embody  them,  they  were  striking  ; 
but  my  hand  would  not  second  my  fancy,  and 
in  each  case  it  had  wrought  out  but  a  pale  por- 
trait of  the  thing  I  had  conceived. 

These  pictures  were  in  water-colors.  The 
first  represented  clouds  low  and  livid,  rolling 
over  a  swelled  sea :  all  the  distance  was  in 
eclipse  ;  so,  too,  was  the  foreground,  or,  rather, 
the  nearest  billows,  for  there  was  no  land.  One 
gleam  of  light  lifted  into  relief  a  half-submerged 
mast,  on  which  sat  a  cormorant,  dark  and  large, 
with  wings  flecked  with  foam  ;  its  beak  held  a 
gold  bracelet,  set  with  gems,  that  I  had  touched 
with  as  brilliant  tints  as  my  pallet  could  yield, 
and  as  glittering  distinctness  as  my  pencil  could 
impart.  Sinking  below  the  bird  and  mast,  a 
drowned  corpse  glanced  through  the  green  wa- 
ter ;  a  fair  arm  was  the  only  limb  clearly  visi- 
ble, whence  the  bracelet  had  been  washed  or 
torn. 


JANE  EYRE 


49 


The  second  picture  contained  for  foreground 
only  tiie  dim  peak  of  a  hill,  with  grass  and  some 
leaves  slanted  as  if  by  a  breeze.  Beyond  and 
above  spread  an  expanse  of  sky,  dark-blue  as 
at  twilight :  rising  into  the  sky,  was  a  woman's 
shape  to  the  bust,  portrayed  in  tints  as  dusk 
and  soft  as  I  could  combine.  The  dim  forehead 
was  crowned  with  a  star  ;  the  lineaments  be- 
low.were  seen  as  through  the  suffusion  of  va- 
por; the  eyes  shone  dark  and  wild;  the  hair 
streamed  shadowy,  like  a  beamless  cloud  torn 
by  storm  or  by  electric  travail.  On  the  neck 
lay  a  pale  reflection,  like  moonlight ;  the  same 
faint  luster  touched  the  train  of  thin  clouds  from 
which  rose  and  bowed  this  vision  of  the  Evening 
Star. ' 

The  third  showed  the  pinnacle  of  an  iceberg 
piercing  a  polar  winter  sky ;  a  muster  of  north- 
ern lights  reared  their  dim  lances,  close  serried, 
along  the  horizon.  Throwing  these  into  dis- 
tance, rose,  in  the  foreground,  a  head,  a  colos- 
sal head,  inclined  toward  the  iceberg,  and  rest- 
ing against  it.  Two  thin  hands,  joined  under 
the  forehead,  and  supporting  it,  drew  up  before 
the  lower  features  a  sable  veil ;  a  brow  quite 
bloodless,  white  as  bone,  and  an  eye  hollow  and 
fixed,  blank  of  meaning  but  for  the  glassiness 
of  despair,  alone  were  visible.  Above  the  tem- 
ples, amid  wreathed  turban  folds  of  black  dra- 
pery, vague  in  its  character  and  consistency  as 
cloud,  gleamed  a  ring  of  white  flame,  gemmed 
with  sparkles  of  a  more  lurid  tinge.  This  pale 
crescent  Avas  "The  likeness  of  a  Kingly 
Crown ;"  what  it  diademed  was  •'  the  shape 
which  shape  had  none." 

"  Were  you  happy  when  you  painted  these 
pictures  1"  asked  Mr.  Rochester,  presently. 

"  I  was  absorbed,  sir  :  yes,  and  I  was  happy. 
To  paint  them,  in  short,  was  to  enjoy  one  of 
the  keenest  pleasures  I  have  ever  known." 

"  That  is  not  saying  much.  Your  pleasures, 
by  your  own  account,  have  been  few ;  but  I 
dare  say  yon  did  exist  in  a  kind  of  artist's 
dreamland  while  you  blent  and  arranged  these 
strange  tints.  Did  you  sit  at  them  long  each 
day?" 

"  I  had  nothing  else  to  do,  because  it  was  the 
vacation,  and  I  sat  at  them  from  morning  till 
noon,  and  from  noon  till  night :  the  length  of 
the  midsummer  days  favored  my  inclination  to 
apply." 

"And  you  felt  self-satisfied  with  the  result 
of  your  ardent  labors  1" 

"  Far  from  it.     I  was  tormented  by  the  con- 
trast between  my  idea  and  my  handiwork :  in 
each  case  I  had  imagined  something  which  I ' 
was  quite  powerless  to  reahze." 

"  Not  quite :  you  have  secured  the  shadow  of  1 
your  thought ;  but  no  more,  probably.  You  had 
not  enough  of  the  artist's  skill  and  science  to 
give  it  full  being  :  yet  the  drawings  are,  for  a 
school-girl,  peculiar.  As  to  the  thoughts,  they 
are  elfish.  These  eyes  in  the  Evening  Star 
you  must  have  seen  in  a  dream.  How  could 
you  make  them  look  so  clear,  and  yet  not  at 
^all  brilliant  ■?  for  the  planet  above  quells  their 
'  rays.  And  what  meaning  is  that  in  their  sol- 
emn depth  1  And  who  taught  you  to  paint 
wind  1  There  is  a  high  gale  in  that  sky,  and 
on  this  hill-top.  Where  did  you  see  Latmos  I 
for  that  is  Latmos.    There,  put  the  drawings 


away 


D 


I  had  scarce  tied  the  strings  of  the  portfolio 
when,  looking  at  his  watch,  he  said,  abruptly, 

"  It  is  nine  o'clock  :  what  are  you  about,  Miss 
Eyre,  to  let  Adele  sit  up  so  long  1  Take  her  to 
bed." 

Adelo  went  to  kiss  him  before  quitting  the 
room ;  he  endured  the  caress,  but  scarcely 
seemed  to  relish  it  more  than  Pilot  would  have 
done,  nor  so  much. 

"I  wish  you  all  good-night,  now,"  said  he, 
making  a  movement  of  the  hand  toward  the 
door,  in  token  that  he  was  tired  of  our  company, 
and  wished  to  dismiss  us.  Mrs.  Fairfax  folded 
up  her  knitting ;  I  took  my  portfolio  :  we  court- 
esied  to  him,  received  a  frigid  bow  in  return, 
and  so  withdrew. 

"  You  said  Mr.  Rochester  was  not  strikingly 
peculiar,  Mrs.  Fairfax,"  I  observed,  when  I  re- 
joined her  in  her  room,  after  putting  Adele  to 
bed. 

"Well,  ishel" 

"  I  think  so :  he  is  very  changeful  and  abrupt." 

"  True ;  no  doubt  he  may  appear  so  to  a 
stranger,  but  I  am  so  accustomed  to  his  man- 
ner, I  never  think  of  it ;  and  then,  if  he  has  pe- 
culiarities of  temper,  allowance  sh»uld  be 
made." 

"WhyV 

"  Partly,  because  it  is  his  nature — and  we 
can  none  of  us  help  our  nature  ;  and  partly,  he 
has  painful  thoughts,  no  doubt,  to  harass  hira, 
and  make  his  spirits  unequal." 

"What  about?" 

"  Family  troubles,  for  one  thing." 

"  But  he  has  no  family." 

"  Not  now ;  but  he  has  had,  or,  at  least,  rel- 
atives. He  lost  his  elder  brother  a  few  years 
since." 

"His  eWcr  brother?" 

"  Yes.  The  present  Mr.  Rochester  has  not 
been  very  long  in  possession  of  the  property  : 
only  about  nine  years." 

"Nine  years  is  a  tolerable  time.  Was  he 
so  very  fond  of  his  brother  as  to  be  still  incon- 
solable for  his  loss?" 

"  Why,  no ;  perhaps  not.  I  believe  there 
were  some  misunderstandings  between  them. 
Mr.  Rowland  Rochester  was  not  quite  just  to 
Mr.  Edward;  and  perhaps  he  prejudiced  his 
father  against  him.  The  old  gentleman  was 
fond  of  money,  and  anxious  to  keep  the  family 
estate  together.  He  did  not  like  to  diminish 
the  property  by  division,  and  yet  he  was  anxious 
that  Mr.  Edward  should  have  wealth,  too,  to 
keep  up  the  consequence  of  the  name  ;  and 
soon  after  he  was  of  ago,  some  steps  were  tak- 
en that  were  not  quite  fair,  and  made  a  great 
deal  of  mischief.  Old  Mr.  Rochester  and  Mr. 
Rowland  combined  to  bring  Mr.  Edward  into 
what  he  considered  a  painful  position,  for  the 
sake  of  making  his  fortune  :  what  the  precise 
nature  of  that  position  was  I  never  clearly 
knew,  but  his  spirit  could  not  brook  what  he 
had  to  suffer  in  it.  He  is  not  very  forgiving : 
he  broke  with  his  family,  and  now  for  many 
years  he  has  led  an  unsettled  kind  of  life.  I 
don't  think  he  has  ever  been  resident  at  Thorn- 
field  for  a  fortnight  together,  since  the-  death  of 
his  brother,  without  a  will,  left  him  master  of  the 
estate;  and,  indeed,  no  wonder  he  shuns  the  cli 
place." 

"  Why  should  he  shun  it  1" 


60 


JANE  EYRE. 


■■    "  Perhaps  lie  thinks  it  gloomy." 

The  answer  was  evasive — I  should  have 
liked  something  clearer  ;  but  Mrs.  Fairfax  either 
could  not,  or  would  not,  give  me  more  explicit 
information  of  the  origin  and  nature  of  Mr. 
Rochester's  trials.  She  averred  they  were  a 
mystery  to  herself,  and  that  what  she  knew 
was  chiefly  from  conjecture.  It  was  evident, 
indeed,  that  she  wished  me  to  drop  the  subject, 
which  I  did  accordingly. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Fob  several  subsequent  days  I  saw  little  of 
Mr.  Rochester.  In  the  mornings  he  seemed 
much  engaged  with  business,  and  in  the  after- 
noon, gentlemen  from  Miilcote  or  the  neighbor- 
hood called,  and  sometimes  stayed  to  dine  with 
him.  When  his  sprain  was  well  enough  to  ad- 
mit of  horse  exercise,  he  rode  out  a  good  deal, 
probably  to  return  these  visits,  as  he  generally 
did  not  come  back  till  late  at  night. 

During  this  interval,  even  Adele  was  seldom 
sent  for  to  his  presence,  and  all  my  acquaint- 
ance with  him  was  confined  to  an  occasional 
rencounter  in  the  hall,  on  the  stairs,  or  in  the 
gallery  ;  when  he  would  sometimes  pass  me 
haughtily  and  coldly,  just  acknowledging  my 
presence  fey  a  distant  nod  or  a  cool  glance,  and 
sometimes  bow  and  smile  with  gentlemanlike 
affability.  His  changes  of  mood  did  not  offend 
me,  because  I  saw  that  I  had  nothing  to  do  with 
their  alternation  :  the  ebb  and  flow  depended 
on  causes  quite  disconnected  with  me. 

One  day  he  had  had  company  to  dinner,  and 
had  sent  for  my  portfolio,  in  order,  doubtless, 
to  exhibit  its  contents  :  the  gentlemen  went 
away  early,  to  attend  a  public  meeting  at  Mill- 
cote,  as  Mrs.  Fairfax  informed  me  ;  but  the 
night  being  wet  and  inclement,  Mr.  Rochester 
did  not  accompany  them.  Soon  after  they 
were  gone,  he  rung  the  bell :  a  message  came 
that  I  and  Adele  were  to  go  down  stairs.  I 
brushed  Adole's  hair  and  made  her  neat,  and 
having  ascertained  that  I  was  myself  in  my  usu- 
al Quaker  trim,  where  there  was  nothing  to 
retouch — all  being  too  close  and  plain,  braided 
locks  included,  to  admit  of  disarrangement — we 
descended,  Adele  wondering  whether  the  -petit 
coffre  was  at  length  come  :  for,  owing  to  some 
mistake,  its  arrival  had  hitherto  been  delayed. 
She  was  gratified ;  there  it  stood,  a  little  car- 
ton, on  the  table  when  we  entered  the  dining- 
room.     She  appeared  to  know  it  by  instinct. 

"Ma  boite  !  ma  boite!"  exclaimed  she,  run- 
ning toward  it. 

"  Yes — there  is  your  '  boite'  at  last ;  take  it 
into  a  corner,  you  genuine  daughter  of  Paris, 
and  amuse  yourself  with  disemboweling  it," 
said  the  deep  and  rather  sarcastic  voice  of  Mr. 
Rochester,  proceeding  from  the  depths  of  an 
immense  easy-chair  at  the  fireside.  "  And 
mind,"  he  continued,  "  don't  bother  me  with 
any  details  of  the  anatomical  process,  or  any 
notice  of  the  condition  of  the  eutrails  :  let  your 
operation  be  conducted  in  silence — tiens-toi 
tranquille,  enfant ;  comprends-tu  V 

Adele  seemed  scarcely  to  need  the  warning  ; 
she  had  already  retired  to  a  sofa  with  her 
treasure,  and  was  busy  untying  the  cord  which 
secured  the  lid.     Having  removed  this  impedi- 


ment, and  lifted  certain  silvery  envelopes  of 
tissue  paper,  she  merely  exclaimed  : 

"Oh,  Ciel !  Que  c'est  beaul"  and  then  re- 
mained absorbed  in  ecstatic  contemplation. 

"  Is  Miss  Eyre,  there !"  now  demanded  the 
master,  half-rising  from  his  seat  to  look  round 
to  the  door,  near  which  I  stood. 

"  Ah  !  well ;  come  forward  ;  be  seated  here." 
He  drew  a  chair  near  his  own.  "  I  am  not  fond 
of  the  prattle  of  children,"  he  continued  ;  "  for, 
old  bachelor  as  I  am,  I  have  no  pleasant  asso- 
ciations connected  with  their  lisp.  It  would  be 
intolerable  to  me  to  pass  a  whole  evening  ttte  cL 
tete  with  a  brat.  Don't  draw  that  chair  farther 
off.  Miss  Eyre  ;  sit  down  exactly  were  I  placed 
it — if  you  please,  that  is.  Confound  these  ci- 
vilities !  I  continually  forget  them.  Nor  do  I 
particularly  affect  simple-minded  old  ladies. 
By  the  by,  I  must  have  in  mine ;  it  won't  do  to 
neglect  her  :  she  is  a  Fairfax,  or  wed  to  one  ; 
and  blood  is  said  to  be  thicker  than  water." 

He  rung  and  dispatched  an  invitation  to  Mrs. 
Fairfax,  who  soon  arrived,  knitting  basket  in 
hand . 

"  Good-evening,  madam  ;  I  sent  to  you  for  a 
charitable  purpose ;  I  have  forbidden  Adele  to 
talk  to  me  about  her  presents,  and  she  is  burst- 
ing with  repletion  ;  have  the  goodness  to  serve 
her  as  auditress  and  interlocutrice ;  it  will  be 
one  of  the  most  benevolent  acts  you  ever  per- 
formed." 

Adele,  indeed,  no  sooner  saw  Mrs.  Fairfax 
than  she  summoned  her  to  her  sofa,  and  there 
quickly  filled  her  lap  with  the  porcelain,  the 
ivory,  the  waxen  contents  of  her  "  boite," 
pouring  out,  meantime,  explanations  and  rap- 
tures in  such  broken  English  as  she  was  mis- 
tress of 

"  Now  I  have  performed  the  part  of  a  good 
host,"  pursued  Mr.  Rochester,  "put  my  guests 
into  the  way  of  amusing  each  other,  I  ought  to 
be  at  liberty  to  attend  to  my  own  pleasure. 
Miss  Eyre,  draw  your  chair  still  a  little  farther 
forward  ;  you  are  yet  too  far  back  :  I  can  not 
see  you  without  disturbing  my  position  in  this 
comfortable  chair,  which  I  have  no  mind  to 
do." 

I  did  as  I  was  bid,  though  I  would  much 
rather  have  remained  somewhat  in  the  shade  ; 
but  Mr.  Rochester  had  such  a  direct  way  of 
giving  orders,  it  seemed  a  matter  of  course  to 
obey  him  promptly. 

We  were,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  dining-room  ; 
the  luster,  which  had  been  lighted  for  dinner, 
filled  the  room  with  a  festal  breadth  of  light ; 
the  large  fire  was  all  red  and  clear ;  the  purple 
curtains  hung  rich  and  ample  before  the  lofly 
window  and  loftier  arch  ;  every  thing  was  still, 
save  the  subdued  chat  of  Adele  (she  dared  not 
speak  loud),  and,  filling  up  each  pause,  the 
beating  of  winter  rain  against  the  panes. 

Mr.  Rochester,  as  he  sat  in  his  damask- 
covered  chair,  looked  different  lo  what  I  had 
seen  him  look  before — not  quite  so  stern  ;  much 
less  gloomy.  There  was  a  smile  on  his  lips, 
and  his  eyes  sparkled,  whether  with  wine  or 
not,  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think  it  very  proba- 
ble. He  was,  in  short,  in  his  after-dinner 
mood — more  expanded  and  genial,  and  also 
more  self-indulgent  than  the  frigid  and  rigid 
temper  of  the  morning ;  still,  he  looked  pre- 
ciously  grim,   cushioning    his    massive    head 


JANE  EYRE. 


51 


against  the  swelling  back  of  his  chair,  and  re- 
ceiving the  light  of  the  fire  on  his  granite-hewn 
features,  and  in  his  great,  dark  eyes — for  he 
had  great,  dark  eyes,  and  very  fine  eyes,  too — 
not  without  a  certain  change  in  their  depths 
sometimes,  which,  if  it  was  not  softness,  re- 
minded you,  at  least,  of  that  feeling. 

He  had  been  looking  two  minutes  at  the  fire, 
and  I  had  been  looking  the  same  length  of  time 
at  him,  when,  turning  suddenly,  he  caught  my 
gaze  fastened  on  his  physiognomy. 

"  You  examine  me.  Miss  Eyre,"  said  he  ; 
"  do  you  think  me  handsome  !" 

I  should,  if  I  had  deliberated,  have  replied 
to  this  question   by  something  conventionally 
vague  and  polite  ;  but  the  answer   somehow 
slipped  from  my  tongue  before  I  was  aware. 
"No,  sir." 

"  Ah !  By  my  word !  there  is  something 
singular  about  you,"  said  he;  "you  have  the 
air  of  a  little  nonnette  ;  quaint,  quiet,  grave,  and 
simple  as  you  sit  with  your  hands  before  you, 
and  your  eyes  generally  bent  on  the  carpet 
(except,  by  the  by,  when  they  are  directed 
piercingly  to  my  face,  as  just  now,  for  in- 
stance) ;  and  when  one  asks  you  a  question, 
or  makes  a  remark  to  which  you  are  obliged  to 
reply,  you  rap  out  a  round  rejoinder,  which,  if 
not  blunt,  is  at  least  brusque.  What  do  you 
mean  by  it  V 

"  Sir,  I  was  too  plain  ;  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
ought  to  have  replied  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
give  an  impromptu  answer  to  a  question  about 
appearances  ;  that  tastes  differ  ;  that  beauty 
is  of  little  consequence,  or  something  of  that 
sort." 

"  You  ought  to  have  replied  no  such  thing. 
Beauty  of  little  consequence,  indeed  !  And  so, 
under  pretense  of  softening  the  previous  out- 
rage, of  stroking  and  soothing  me  into  placidi- 
ty, you  stick  a  sly  penknife  under  my  ear! 
Go  on  ;  what  fault  do  you  find  with  me,  pray  1 
I  suppose  I  have  all  my  limbs  and  all  my  feat- 
ures like  any  other  man  •"' 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  allow  me  to  disown  my  first 
answer.  I  intended  no  pointed  repartee ;  it 
was  only  a  blunder." 

"Just  so;  I  think  so;  and  you  shall  be  an- 
swerable for  it.  Criticise  me ;  does  my  fore- 
haed  not  please  youl" 

He  lifted  up  the  sable  waves  of  hair  which 
lay  horizontally  over  his  brow,  aud  showed  a 
solid  enough  mass  of  intellectual  organs ;  but 
an  abrupt  deficiency  where  the  suave  sign  of 
benevolence  should  have  risen. 
"  Nov^,  ma'am,  am  I  a  fool  1" 
"  Far  from  it,  sir.  You  would  perhaps  think 
me  rude  if  I  inquired,  in  return,  whether  you 
are  a  philanthropist  1' 

"  There  again  !  Another  stick  of  the  pen- 
knife, when  she  pretended  to  pat  my  head ; 
and  that  is  because  I  said  I  did  not  like  the  so- 
ciety of  children  and  old  women  (low  be  it 
spoken  '.).  No,  young  lady,  I  am  not  a  general 
philanthropist ;  but  I  bear  a  conscience  ;"  and 
he  pointed  to  the  prominences  which  are  said 
to  indicate  that  faculty — and  which,  fortunate- 
ly for  him,  were  sufficiently  conspicuous  ;  giv- 
ing, indeed,  a  marked  breadth  to  the  upper  part 
of  his  head  ;  "  and  besides,  I  once  had  a  kind  of 
rude  tenderness  of  heart.  When  I  was  as  old 
3  you,  I  was  a  feeling  fellow  enough  ;  partial 


to  the  unfledged,  unfostered,  and  unlucky  ;.  but 
fortune  has  knocked  me  about  since ;  she  has 
even  kneaded  me  with  her  knuckles,  and  now  I 
flatter  myself  I  am  hard  and  tough  as  an  In- 
dia-rubber ball,  pervious,  though,  through  a 
chink  or  two  still,  and  with  one  sentient  point 
in  the  middle  of  the  lump.  Yes  ;  does  that 
leave  hope  for  me  !" 
"  Hope  of  what,  sir  !" 

"  Of  my  final  retransformation  from  India- 
rubber  back  to  flesh  V 

"  Decidedly  he  has  had  too  much  wine,"  I 
thought,  and  I  did  not  know  what  answer  to 
make  to  his  queer  question  ;  how  could  I  tell 
whether  he  was  capable  of  being  retrans- 
formed  1 

"  You  look  very  much  puzzled.  Miss  Eyre ; 
and  though  you  are  not  pretty  any  more  than  t 
am  handsome,  yet  a  puzzled  air  becomes  you  ; 
besides,  it  is  convenient,  for  it  keeps  those 
searching  eyes  of  yours  away  from  my  physi- 
ognomy, and  busies  them  with  the  worsted 
flowers  of  the  rug — so  puzzle  on.  Young  lady, 
I  am  disposed  to  be  gregarious  and  communi- 
cative to-night." 

With  this  announcement  he  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  stood,  leaning  his  arm  on  the  marble 
mantle-piece  ;  in  that  attitude  his  shape  was 
seen  plainly,  as  well  as  his  face ;  his  unusual 
breadth  of  chest,  disproportionate  almo.st  to 
his  length  of  limb.  I  am  sure  most  people 
would  have  thought  him  an  ugly  man  ;  yet 
there  was  so  much  unconscious  pride  in  his 
port ;  so  much  ease  in  his  demeanor ;  such  a 
look  of  complete  indifference  to  his  own  ex- 
ternal appearance  ;  so  haughty  a  reliance  on 
the  power  of  other  qualities,  intrinsic  or  ad- 
ventitious, to  atone  for  the  lack  of  mere  per- 
sonal attractiveness,  that,  in  looking  at  him, 
one  inevitably  shared  the  indifference ;  and 
even,  in  a  blind,  imperfect  sense,  put  faith  in 
the  confidence. 

"  I  am  disposed  to  be  gregarious  and  com- 
municative to-night,"  he  repeated;  "and  that 
is  why  I  sent  for  you.  The  fire  and  the  chan- 
delier were  not  sufficient  company  for  me ;  nor 
would  Pilot  have  been,  for  none  of  these  can 
talk.  Adele  is  a  degree  better,  but  still  far  be- 
low the  mark ;  Mrs.  Fairfax  ditto ;  you,  I  am 
persuaded,  can  suit  me  if  you  will ;  you  puzzled 
me  the  first  evening  I  invited  you  down  here. 
I  have  almost  forgotten  you  since  ;  other  ideas 
have  driven  yours  from  my  head  ;  but  to-night 
I  am  resolved  to  be  at  ease— to  dismiss  what 
importunes,  and  recall  what  pleases.  It  would 
please  ine  now  to  draw  you  out — to  learn  more 
of  you — therefore  speak." 

Instead  of  speaking,  I  smiled  ;  and  not  a  very 
complaisant  or  submissive  smile  either. 
"  Speak,"  he  urged. 
"  What  about,  sir  !" 

"  Whatever  you  like.  I  leave  both  the  choice 
of  subject  and  the  manner  of  treating  it  en- 
tirely to  yourself." 

Accordingly  I  sat  and  said  nothing.  "  If  he 
expects  me  to  talk,  for  the  mere  sake  of  talking 
and  showing  off,  he  will  find  he  has  addressed 
himself  to  the  wrong  person,"  I  thought. 
"  You  are  dumb.  Miss  Eyre." 
I  was  dumb  still.  He  bent  his  head  a  little 
toward  me,  and  with  a  single  hasty  glance 
seemed  to  dive  into  my  eyes 


52 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Stubborn  r*  he  said,  'and  annoyed.  Ah, 
it  is  consistent.  I  put  my  request  in  an  absurd, 
almost  insolent  form.  Miss  Eyre,  I  beg  your 
pardon.  The  fact  is,  once  for  all,  I  don't  wish 
to  treat  you  like  an  inferior  ;  that  is  (correcting 
himself),  I  claim  only  such  superiority  as  must 
result  from  twenty  years'  difference  in  age,  and 
a  century's  advance  in  experience.  This  is 
legitimate,  et  j'y  tiens,  as  Adele  would  say ; 
and  it  is  by  virtue  of  this  superiority,  and  this 
alone,  that  I  desire  you  to  have  the  goodness  to 
talk  to  me  a  little  now,  and  divert  my  thoughts, 
which  are  galled  with  dwelling  on  one  point — 
cankering  as  a  rusty  nail." 

He  had  deigned  an  explanation — almost  an 
apology.  I  did  not  feel  insensible  to  his  conde- 
scension, and  would  not  seem  so. 

"  I  am  willing  to  amuse  you  if  I  can,  sir — 
quite  willing ;  but  I  can  not  introduce  a  topic, 
because  how  do  I  know  what  will  interest  you  1 
Ask  me  questions,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  an- 
swer them." 

"  Then,  in  the  first  place,  do  you  agree  with 
me  that  I  have  a  right  to  be  a  little  masterful — 
abrupt — periiaps  exacting,  sometimes,  on  the 
grounds  I  stated :-  namely,  that  I  am  old  enougli 
to  be  your  father,  and  that  I  have  battled  through 
a  varied  experience  with  many  men  of  many 
nations,  and  roamed  over  half  the  globe,  while 
you  have  lived  quietly  with  one  set  of  people 
in  one  house!" 

"  Do  as  you  please,  sir." 

"That  is  no  answer ;  or,  rather,  it  is  a  very 
irritating,  because  a  very  evasive  one :  reply 
clearly." 

"  I  don't  think,  sir,  you  have  a  right  to  com- 
mand me,  merely  because  you  are  older  than 
I,  or  because  you  have  seen  more  of  the  world 
than  I  have  ;  your  claim  to  superiority  depends 
on  the  use  you  have  made  of  your  time  and 
experience." 

"  Humph  !  promptly  spoken.  But  I  won't 
allow  that,  seeing  that  it  would  never  suit  my 
case,  as  I  have  made  an  inditferent,  not  to  say, 
a  bad  use  of  both  advantages.  Leaving  su- 
periority out  of  the  question,  then,  you  must 
still  agree  to  receive  my  orders  now  and  then, 
without  being  piqued  or  hurt  by  the  tone  of 
command — will  you  1" 

I  smiled.  I  thought  to  myself  Mr.  Roches- 
ter is  peculiar.  He  seems  to  forget  that  he  pays 
me  £30  per  annum  for  receiving  his  orders. 

*'The  smile  is  very  well,"  said  he,  catch- 
ing instantly  the  passing  expression ;  "  but 
speak,  too." 

"  I  was  thinking,  sir,  that  very  few  masters 
would  trouble  themselves  to  inquire  whether  or 
not  their  paid  subordinates  were  piqued  and  hurt 
by  their  orders." 

"  Paid  subordinates !  What !  you  are  my 
paid  subordinate,  are  you  1  Oh,  yes,  I  had  for- 
gotten the  salary !  Well,  then,  on  that  merce- 
nary ground,  will  you  agree  to  let  me  hector  a 
little  1" 

"No,  sir,  not  on  that  ground;  but  on  the 
ground  that  you  did  forget  it,  and  that  you  care 
whether  or  not  a  dependent  is  comfortable  in 
his  dependency,  I  agree  heartily." 

"  And  will  you  consent  to  dispense  with  a 
great  many  conventional  forms  and  phrases, 
without  thinking  that  the  omission  arises  from 
insolence'" 


"  I  am  sure,  sir,  I  should  never  mistake  in- 
formality for  insolence  :  one,  I  rather  like ;  the 
other,  nothing  free-born  would  submit  to,  even 
for  a  salary." 

"  Humbug  !  Most  things  free-born  will  sub- 
mit to  any  thing  for  a  salary ;  therefore,  keep 
to  yourself,  and  don't  venture  on  generalities  of 
which  you  are  intensely  ignorant.  However, 
I  mentally  shake  hands  with  you  for  your  an- 
swer, despite  its  inaccuracy  ;  and  as  much  for 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  said,  as  for  the  sub- 
stance of  the  speech ;  the  manner  was  frank 
and  sincere ;  one  does  not  often  see  such  a 
manner :  no,  on  the  contrary,  affectation  or 
coldness,  or  stupid,  coarse-minded  misappre- 
hension of  one's  meaning  are  the  usual  rewards 
of  candor.  Not  three  in  three  thousand  raw 
school-girl-governesses  would  have  answered 
me  as  you  have  just  done.  Bilt  I  don't  mean 
to  flatter  you ;  if  you  are  cast  in  a  different 
mold  to  the  majority,  it  is  no  merit  of  yours ; 
Nature  did  it.  And  then,  after  all,  I  go  too  fast 
in  my  conclusions  ;  for  what  I  yet  know,  you 
may  be  no  better  than  the  rest ;  you  may  have 
intolerable  defects  to  connterbalance  your  few 
good  points." 

"  And  so  may  you,"  I  thought.  My  eye  met 
his  as  the  idea  crossed  my  mind.  He  seemed 
to  read  the  glance,  answering  as  if  its  import 
had  been  spoken,  as  well  as  imagined  : 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  are  right,"  said  he  ;  "I  have 
plenty  of  faults  of  my  own  ;  I  know  it,  and  I 
don't  wish  to  palliate  them,  I  assure  you.  God 
wot  I  need  not  be  too  severe  about  others.  I 
have  a  past  existence,  a  series  of  deeds,  a  color 
of  life  to  contemplate  within  my  own  breast, 
which  might  well  call  my  sneers  and  censures 
from  my  neighbors  to  myself  I  started,  or,  ra- 
ther (for,  like  other  defaulters,  I  like  to  Jay 
half  tlie  blame  on  ill  fortune  and  adverse  cir- 
cumstances), was  thrust  on  to  a  wrong  tack  at 
the  age  of  one-and-twenty,  and  have  never  re- 
.covered  the  right  course  since ;  but  I  might 
have  been  very  different ;  I  might  have  been  as 
good  as  you — wiser — almost  as  stainless.  I 
envy  you  your  peace  of  mind,  your  clean  con- 
science, your  unpolluted  memory.  Little  girl, 
a  memory  without  blot  or  contamination  must 
be  an  exquisite  treasure — an  inexhaustible 
source  of  pure  refreshment ;  is  it  notl" 

"  How  was  your  memory  when  you  were 
eighteen,  sir?" 

"  All  right,  then — limpid,  salubrious ;  no  gush 
of  bilge-water  had  turned  it  to  fetid  puddle.  I 
was  your  equal  at  eighteen — quite  your  equal. 
Nature  meant  me  to  be,  on  the  whole,  a  good 
man.  Miss  Eyre,  one  of  the  better  end,  and  you 
see  I  am  not  so.  You  would  say  you  don't  see 
it ;  at  least,  I  flatter  myself  I  read  as  much  in 
your  eye  (beware,  by  the  by,  what  you  express 
with  that  organ,  I  am  quick  at  interpreting  its 
language).  Then,  take  my  word  for  it,  I  am 
not  a  villain  ;  you  are  not  to  suppose  that — not 
to  attribute  to  me  any  such  bad  eminence  ;  but, 
owing,  I  verily  believe,  rather  to  circumstances 
than  to  my  natural  bent,  I  am  a  trite,  common- 
place sinner,  haokneyed  in  all  the  poor,  petty 
dissipations,  with  which  the  rich  and  worthless 
try  to  put  on  life.  Do  you  wonder  that  I  avow 
this  to  you  ?  Know,  that  in  the  course  of  your 
future  life  you  will  often  find  yourself  elected 
the  involuntarv  confident  of  your  acquaintances' 


JANE  EYRE. 


53 


secrets.  People  will  instinctively  find  out,  as 
I  have  done,  that  it  is  not  your  forte  to  talk  of 
yourself,  but  to  listen  while  others  talk  of  them- 
selves ;  they  will  feel,  too,  that  you  listen  with 
no  malevolent  scorn  of  their  indiscretion,  but 
with  a  kind  of  innate  sympathy — not  the  less 
comforting  and  encouraging  because  it  is  very 
■unobtrusive  in  its  manifestations." 

"  How  do  you  know  1  how  can  you  guess  all 
this,  sir?" 

"  I  know  it  well :  therefore  I  proceed  almost 
as  freely  as  if  I  were  writing  my  thoughts  in  a 
diary.  You  would  say,  I  should  have  been 
superior  to  circumstances ;  so  I  should — so  I 
should ;  but  you  see  I  was  not.  When  fate 
wronged  me,  I  had  not  the  wisdom  to  remain 
cool :  I  turned  desperate  ;  then  I  degenerated. 
Now,  when  any  vicious  simpleton  excites  my 
disgust  by  his  paltry  ribaldry,  I  can  not  flatter 
Btiyself  that  I  am  better  than  he :  I  am  forced 
to  confess  that  he  and  I  are  on  a  level.  I  wish 
I  had  stood  firm — God  knows  I  do !  Dread 
remorse  when  you  are  tempted  to  err,  Miss 
Eyre  :  remorse  is  the  poison  of  life." 

"Repentance  is  said  to  be  its  cure,  sir." 

"  It  is  not  its  cure.  Reformation  may  be  its 
cure ;  and  I  could  reform — I  have  strength  yet 
for  that — if— but  where  is  the  use  of  thinking 
of  it,  hampered,  burdened,  "Cursed  as  I  am  1 
Besides,  since  happiness  is  irrevocably  denied 
me,  I  have  a  right  to  get  pleasure  out  of  life ; 
and  I  will  get  it  cost  what  it  may." 

"  Then  you  will  degenerate  still  more,  sir." 

"Possibly:  yet  why  should  I,  if  I  can  get 
sweet  fresh  pleasure?  And  I  may  get  it  as 
sweet  and  fresh  as  the  wild  honey  the  bee 
gathers  on  the  moor." 

"  It  will  sting — it  will  taste  bitter,  sir." 

♦'  How  do  you  know  1  you  never  tried  it. 
How  very  serious — how  very  solemn  you  look  ; 
and  you  are  as  ignorant  of  the  matter  as  this 
cameo  head  (taking  one  from  the  mantle-piece) ! 
You  have  no  right  to  preach  to  me,  you  Neo- 
phyte, that  have  not  passed  the  porch  of  life 
and  are  absolutely  unacquainted  with  its  mys- 
teries." 

"I  only  remind  you  of  your  own  words,  sir ; 
you  said  error  brought  remorse,  and  you  pro- 
nounced remorse  the  poison  of  existence." 

"And  who  talks  of  error  now?  I  scarcely 
think  the  notion  that  flittered  across  my  brain 
was  an  error.  I  believe  it  was  an  inspiration 
rather  than  a  temptation  ;  it  was  very  genial, 
very  soothing,  I  know  that.  Here  it  comes 
again  !  It  is  no  devil,  I  assure  you :  or  if  it  be, 
it  has  put  on  the  robes  of  an  angel  of  light.  I 
think  I  must  admit  so  fair  a  guest  when  it  asks 
its  entrance  to  my  heart." 

"  Distrust  it,  sir :  it  is  not  a  true  angel." 

"Once  more,  how  do  you  know?  'By  what 
instinct  do  you  pretend  to  distinguish  between 
a  fallen  seraph  of  the  abyss,  and  a  messenger 
from  the  eternal  throne — between  a  guide  and 
a  seducer?" 

"  I  judged  by  your  countenance,  sir,  which 
was  troubled,  when  you  said  the  suggestion  had 
returned  upon  you.  I  feel  sure  it  will  work 
you  more  misery  if  you  listen  to  it." 

"Not  at  all — it  bears  the  most  gracious 
message  in  the  world :  for  the  rest,  you  are 
not  my  conscience-keeper,  so  don't  make  your- 
self uneasy.    Here,  come  in,  bonny  wanderer !" 


He  said  this  as  if  he  spoke  to  a  vision,  view- 
less to  any  eye  but  his  own ;  then  folding  his 
arms,  which  he  had  half  extended,  on  his  chest, 
he  seemed  to  inclose  in  their  embrace  the  in- 
visible being. 

"  Now,"  he  continued,  again  addressing  me, 
"I  have  received  the  pilgrim— a  disguised 
deity,  as  I  verily  believe.  Already  it  has  done 
me  good;  my  heart  was  a  sort  of  charnel ;  it 
will  now  be  a  shrine." 

"  To  speak  truth,  sir,  I  don't  understand  you 
at  all ;  I  can  not  keep  up  the  conversation,  be- 
cause it  has  got  out  of  my  depth.  Only  one 
thing  I  know ;  you  said  you  were  not  as  good 
as  you  should  like  to  be,  and  that  you  regretted 
your  own  imperfection— one  thing  I  can  com- 
prehend :  you  intimated  that  to  have  a  sullied 
memory  was  a  perpetual  bane.  It  seems  to 
me,  that  if  you  tried  hard,  you  would  in  time 
find  it  possible  to  become  what  you  yourself 
would  approve  ;  and  that  if  from  this  day  you 
began  with  resolution  to  correct  your  thoughts 
and  actions,  you  would,  in  a  few  y.ears,  hav» 
laid  up  a  new  and  stainless  store  of  recollec- 
tions, to  which  you  might  revert  with  pleasure." 

"  Justly  thought,  rightly  said.  Miss  Eyre  ; 
and  at  this  moment,  I  am  paving  hell  with 
energy." 

"  Sir?" 

"  I  am  laying  down  good  intentions,  which  I 
believe  durable  as  flint.  Certainly,  my  asso- 
ciates and  pursuits  shall  be  other  than  they 
have  been." 

"And  better?" 

"  And  better — as  much  better  as  pure  ore  is 
than  foul  dross.  You  seem  to  doubt  me ;  I 
don't  doubt  myself;  I  know  what  my  aim  is, 
what  my  motives  are  ;  and,  at  this  moment  I 
pass  a  law,  unalterable  as  that  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians,  that  both  are  right." 

"  They  can  not  be,  sir,  if  they  require  a  new 
statute  to  legalize  them." 

"They  are,  Miss  Eyre,  though  they  abso- 
lutely require  a  new  statute  ;  unheard-of  com- 
binations of  circumstances  demand  unheard-of 
rules." 

"That  sounds  a  dangerous  maxim,  sir  ;  be- 
cause one  can  see  at  once  that  it  is  liable  to 
abuse." 

"  Sententious  sage  l  so  it  is ;  but  I  swear  by 
my  household  gods  not  to  abu-se  it." 

"  You  are  human  and  fallible." 

"  I  am  ;  so  are  you — what  then  1" 

"The  human  and  fallible  should  not  arrogate 
a  power  with  which  the  divine  and  perfect 
alone  can  be  safely  intrusted." 

"What  power?" 

"  That  of  saying  of  any  strange,  unsanction- 
ed line  of  action,  '  Let  i\;  be  right.'  " 

" '  Let  it  be  right' — the  very  words  ;  you 
have  pronounced  them." 

"May  it  be  right,  then,"  I  said  as  I  rose; 
deeming  it  useless  to  continue  a  discourse  which 
was  all  darkness  to  me  ;  and,  besides,  sensible 
that  the  character  of  my  interlocutor  was  be- 
yond my  penetration :  at  least,  beyond  its 
present  reach ;  and  feeling  the  uncertainty 
ilie  vague  sense  of  insecurity,  which  accom- 
panies a  conviction  of  ignorance. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"  To  put  Adele  to  bed  :  it  is  past  her  bed- 
time." 


64 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  You  are  afraid  of  me,  because  I  talk  like  a 
Sphynx." 

"Your  language  is  enigmatical,  sir;  but 
though  I  am  bewildered,  I  am  certainly  not 
afraid." 

"You  arc  afraid — your  self-love  dreads  a 
blunder." 

"  In  that  sense  I  do  feel  apprehensive — I  have 
no  wish  to  talk  nonsense." 

"If  you  did,  it  would  be  in  such  a  grave, 
quiet  manner,  I  should  mistake  it  for  sense. 
Do  you  never  laugh,  Miss  Eyre !  Don't  trouble 
yourself  to  answer — I  see,  you  laugh  rarely  ; 
but  you  can  laugh  very  merrily  ;  believe  me, 
you  are  not  naturally  austere,  any  more  than  I 
am  naturally  vicious.  The  Lowood  constraint 
still  clings  to  you  somewhat  ;  controlling  your 
features,  muffling  your  voice,  and  restricting 
your  limbs  ;  and  you  fear  in  the  presence  of  a 
man  and  a  brother — or  father,  or  master,  or 
what  you  will — to  smile  too  gayly,  speak  too 
freely,  or  move  too  quickly  ;  but  in  time,  I  think 
you  will  learn  to  be  natural  with  me,  as  I  find 
it  impossible  to  be  conventional  with  you  ;  and 
then  your  looks  and  movements  will  have  more 
vivacity  and  variety  than  they  dare  offer  now. 
I  see,  at  intervals,  the  glance  of  a  curious 
sort  of  bird  through  the  close-set  bars  of  the 
cage ;  a  vivid,  restless,  resolute  captive  is 
there ;  were  it  but  free,  it  would  soar  cloud- 
high.  You  are  still  bent  on  going  V 
"  It  has  struck  nine,  sir." 
"  Never  mind  ;  wait  a  minute  :  Adele  is  not 
ready  to  go  to  bed  yet.  My  position,  Miss  Eyre, 
with  my  back  to  the  fire,  and  my  face  to  the 
room,  favors  observation.  While  talking  to 
you,  I  have  occasionally  watched  Adele  (I 
have  my  own  reasons  for  thinking  her  a  curious 
study,  reasons  that  I  may — nay  that  I  shall  im- 
part to  you  some  day)  ;  she  pulled  out  of  her 
box,  about  ten  minutes  ago,  a  little  pink  silk 
frock  ;  rapture  lighted  her  face  as  she  unfolded 
it ;  coquetry  runs  in  her  blood,  blends  with  her 
brains,  and  seasons  the  marrow  of  her  bones. 
'  II  faut  que  je  I'essaie  I'  cried  she  ;  'et  a  I'in- 
stant  meme  !'  and  she  rushed  out  of  the  room. 
She  is  now  with  Sophie,  undergoing  a  robing 
process ;  in  a  few  minutes  she  will  re-enter  ; 
and  I  know  what  I  shall  sec,  a  miniature  of 
Cehne  Varens,  as  she  used  to  appear  on  the 

boards  at  the  rising  of ;  but  never  mind 

that.  However,  my  tenderest  feelings  arc  about 
to  receive  a  shock  ;  such  is  my  presentiment ; 
stay,  now,  to  see  whether  it  will  be  realized." 
Ere  long,  Adole's  little  foot  was  heard  trip- 
ping across  the  hall.  She  entered,  transformed 
as  her  guardian  had  predicted.  A  dress  of 
rose-colored  satin,  very  short,  and  as  full  in 
the  skirt  as  it  could  be  gathered,  replaced  the 
brown  frock  she  had  previously  worn;  a  wreath 
of  rosebuds  circled  her  forehead  ;  her  feet 
were  dressed  in  silk  stockings  and  small  white 
satin  sandals. 

"Est-ce  que  ma  robe  va  bienl"  cried  she, 
bounding  forward;  "et  mes  souliersT  et  mes 
bas  1     Tencz-je  crois  que  je  vais  danser  !" 

And  spreading  out  her  dress,  she  chasseed 
across  the  room;  till,  having  reached  Mr. 
Rochester,  she  wheeled  lightly  round  before 
him  on  tip-toe,  then  dropped  on  one  knee  at 
his  feet,  exclaiming — 

"  Monsieur,  je  vous  rcmercie  mille  fois  de 


votre  bonle ;"  then  rising,  she  added,  "  C'est 
comme  cela  que  maman  faisait,  n'est-ce-p  >s, 
monsieur?" 

"  Pre-cise-ly  1"  was  the  answer;  "  and  'com- 
me cela,'  she  charmed  my  English  gold  out  of 
my  British  breeches'  pocket.  I  have  been 
green,  too.  Miss  Eyre — ay,  grass-green  :  not  a 
more  vernal  tint  freshens  you  now  than  once 
freshened  me.  My  Spring  is  gone,  however ; 
but  it  has  left  me  that  French  floweret  on  my 
iiands  ;  which,  in  some"  moods,  I  would  fain 
be  rid  of.  Not  valuing  now  the  root  whence 
it  sprung ;  having  found  that  it  was  of  a  sort 
which  nothing  but  gold  dust  could  manure,  1 
have  but  half  a  liking  to  the  blossom ;  es- 
pecially when  it  looks  so  artificial,  as  just  now. 
I  keep  it  and  rear  it  rather  on  the  Roman 
Catholic  principle  of  expiating  numerous  sins, 
great  or  small,  by  one  good  work.  I'll  explain 
all  this  some  day.     Good-night.'" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Mk.  Rochester  did,  on  a  future  occasion, 
explain  it. 

It  was  one  afternoon,  when  he  chanced  to 
meet  me  and  Adele  in  the  grounds,  and  while 
she  played  with  Pilot  and  her  shuttlecock,  he 
asked  me  to  walk  up  and  down  a  long  beech 
avenue  within  sight  of  her. 

He  then  said  that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
French  opera  dancer,  Celine  Varens,  toward 
whom  he  had  once  cherished  what  he  called  a 
"  grande  passion."  This  passion  Celine  had 
professed  to  return  with  even  superior  ardor. 
He  thought  himself  her  idol,  ugly  as  he  was  ; 
he  believed,  as  he  said,  that  she  preferred  his 
"  taille  d'athlote"  to  the  elegance  of  the  Apollo 
Belvidere. 

"  And,  Miss  Eyre,  so  much  was  I  flattered 
by  this  preference  of  the  Gallic  sylph  for  her 
British  gnome,  that  I  installed  her  in  a  hotel ; 
gave  her  a  complete  establishment  of  servants, 
a  carriage,  cashmeres,  diamonds,  dentelles,  &;c. 
In  short,  I  began  the  process  of  ruining  myself 
in  the  received  style — like  any  other  spoony. 
I  had  not,  it  seems,  the  originality  to  chalk  out 
a  new  road  to  shame  and  destruction,  but  trod 
the  old  track  with  stupid  exactness  not  to  de- 
viate an  inch  from  the  beaten  center.  I  had — as  1 
deserve  to  have — the  fate  of  all  other  spoonies. 
Happening  to  call  one  evening,  when  GcUne 
did  not  expect  me,  I  found  her  out ;  but  it  was 
a  warm  night,  and  I  was  tired  with  strolling 
through  Paris,  so  I  sat  down  in  her  boudoir  ; 
happy  to  breathe  the  air  consecrated  so  lately 
by  her  presence.  No — I  exaggerate ;  I  never 
thought  there  was  any  consecrating  virtue 
about  her:  it  was  rather  a  sort  of  pastile  per- 
fume she  had  left — a  scent  of  musk  and  amber, 
than  an  odor  of  sanctity.  I  was  just  beginning 
to  stifle  with  the  fumes  of  conservatory  liowert- 
and  sprinkled  essences,  when  I  bethought  my- 
self to  open  the  window  and  step  out  on  to  tine 
balcony.  It  was  moonlight,  and  gas-light  be- 
sides, and  very  still  and  serene.  The  balcony 
was  furnished  with  a  chair  or  two  ;  I  sat  down, 
took  out  a  cigar— I  will  take  one  now,  if  you 
will  excuse  me." 

Here  ensued  a  pause,  filled  up  by  the  pro- 
ducing and  lighting  of  a  cigar ;  havmg  placed 


JANE  EYRE. 


55 


it  to  his  lips  and  breathed  a  trail  of  Havannah 
incense  on  the  freezing  and  sunless  air,  he 
went  on. 

"  I  liked  bonbons,  too,  in  those  days,  Miss 
Eyre,  and  I  was  croquant — (overlook  the  bar- 
barism) croquant  chocolate  comfits,  and  smoking 
alternately,  watching,  meantime,  the  equipages 
that  rolled  along  the  fashionable  street  toward 
the  neighboring  opera-house,  when  in  an  ele- 
gant close  carriage  drawn  by  a  beautiful  pair  of 
English  horses,  and  distinctly  seen  in  the  brill- 
iant eity-night,  I  recognized  the  'voiture'  I 
had  given  Celine.  She  was  returning;  of 
course  my  heart  thumped  with  impatience 
against  the  iron  rails  I  leaned  upon.  The  car- 
riage stopped,  as  I  had  expected,  at  the  hotel 
door  ;  my  flame  (that  is  the  very  word  for  an 
opera  inamorata)  alighted  :  though  muffled  in 
a  cloak — an  unnecessary  incumbrance,  by  the 
by,  on  so  warm  a  June  evening — I  knew  her 
instantly  by  her  little  foot,  seen  peeping  from 
the  skirt  of  her  dress,  as  she  skipped  from  the 
carriage-step.  Bending  over  the  balcony,  I  was 
about  to  murmur  '  Mon  Ange' — in  a  tone,  of 
course,  which  should  be  audible  to  the  ear  of 
love  alone — when  a  figure  jumped  from  the 
carriage  after  her,  cloaked  also  ;  but  that  was  a 
spurred  heel  which  had  rung  on  the  pavement, 
and  that  was  a  hatted  head  which  now  passed 
wnder  the  arched  porte  cochcrc  of  the  hotel. 

"You  never  felt  jealousy  did  you.  Miss  Eyvel 
Of  course  not :  I  need  not  ask  you  ;  because 
you  never  felt  love.  You  have  both  sentiments 
yet  to  experience  :  your  soul  sleeps  ;  the  shock 
is  yet  to  be  given  which  shall  waken  it.  You 
think  all  existence  lapses  in  as  quiet  a  flow  as 
that  in  which  your  youth  has  hitherto  slid 
away.  Floating  on  with  closed  eyes  and 
muffled  ears,  you  neither  see  the  rocks  bris- 
tling not  far  off  in  the  bed  of  the  flood,  nor  hear 
the  breakers  boil  at  their  base.  But  I  tell  you 
— and  you  may  mark  my  w'ords — you  will  come 
some  day  to  a  craggy  pass  of  the  channel, 
where  the  whole  of  life's  stream  will  be  broken 
up  into  whirl  and  tumult,  foam  and  noise  : 
either  you  will  b^  dashed  to  atoms  on  crag- 
points,  or  lifted  up  and  borne  on  by  some 
master  wave  into  a  calmer  current — as  I  am 
now. 

"  I  like  this  day  ;  I  like  that  sicy  of  steel ; 
I  like  the  sternness  and  stillness  of  the  world 
under  this  frost.  I  like  Thornfield  ;  its  an- 
tiquity ;  its  retirement ;  its  old  crow-trees  and 
thorn-trees ;  its  gray  fa<^ade,  and  lines  of  dark 
windows  reflecting  that  metal  welkin  :  and  yet 
how  long  have  I  abhorred  the  very  thought  of 
it ;  shunned  it  like  a  great  plague-house  !  How 
I  do  still  abhor—" 

He  ground  his  teeth  and  was  silent';  he  ar- 
rested his  step  and  struck  his  boot  against  the 
hard  ground.  Some  hated  thought  seemed  to 
have  him  in  its  grip,  and  to  hold  him  so  tightly 
that  he  could  not  advance. 

We  were  ascending  the  avenue  when  he 
thus  paused ;  the  hall  was  before  us.  Lifting 
his  eye  to  its  battlements,  he  cast  over  them  a 
glare  such  as  I  never  saw  before  or  since. 
Pain,  shame,  ire — impatience,  disgust,  detesta- 
*tion — seemed  momentarily  to  hold  a  quivering 
conflict  in  the  large  pupil  dilating  under  his 
ebon  eyebrow.  Wild  was  the  wrestle  which 
should  be  paramount ;  but  another  feeling  rose 


and  triumphed  :  something  hard  and  cynical, 
self-willed  and  resolute  :  it  settled  his  passion 
and  petrified  his  countenance.     He  went  on. 

"  During  the  moment  I  was  silent,  Miss 
Eyre,  I  was  arranging  a  point  with  my  destiny. 
She  stood  there,  by  that  beech-trunk — a  hag 
like  one  of  those  who  appeared  to  Macbeth 
on  the  heath  of  Forres.  '  You  like  Thornfield'?' 
she  said,  lifting  her  finger ;  and  then  she  wrote 
in  the  air  a  memento,  which  ran  in  lurid  hiero- 
glyphics all  along  the  house-front,  between  the 
upper  and  lower  row  of  windows.  '  Like  it 
if  you  can  I     Like  it  if  you  dare  '.' 

"'I  will  like  it,'  said  I.  'I  dare  like  it;' 
and  (he  subjoined  moodily)  I  will  keep  my 
word  ;  I  will  break  obstacles  to  happiness,  to 
goodness — yes,  goodness.  I  wish  to  be  a  better 
man  than  I  have  been  ;  than  I  am  ;  as  Job's 
leviathan  broke  the  spear,  the  dart,  and  the 
habergeon,  hinderances  which  others  count  as 
iron  and  brass,  I  will  esteem  but  straw  and 
rotten  wood." 

Adele  here  ran  before  him  with  her  shuttle- 
cock. "Away!"  he  cried  harshly;  "keep  at 
a  distance,  child  ;  or  go  in  to  Sophie  !"  Con- 
tinuing then  to  pursue  his  walk  in  silence,  I 
ventured  to  recall  him  to  the  point  whence  he 
had  abruptly  diverged. 

"  Did  you  leave  the  balcony,  sir,"  I  asked, 
"when  Mademoiselle  Varens  entered T' 

I  almost  expected  a  rebufT  for  this  hardly 
well-timed  question  ;  but,  on  the  contrary, 
waking  out  of  his  scowling  abstraction,  he 
turned  his  eyes  toward  me,  and  the  shade 
seemed  to  clear  ofi'  his  brow. 

"  Oh,  I  had  forgotten  Celine  !  Vv'ell,  to  re- 
sume. When  I  saw  my  charmer  thus  come  in 
accompanied  by  a  cavalier,  I  seemed  to  hear  a 
hiss,  and  the  green  snake  of  jealousy,  rising 
on  undulating  coils  from  the  moonlit  balconj', 
glided  within  my  waistcoat  and  eat  its  way  in 
two  minutes  to  my  heart's  core.  Strange  1" 
lie  exclaimed,  suddenly  starting  again  from  the 
point.  "  Strange  that  1  should  choose  you  for 
the  confident  of  all  this,  young  lady ;  passing 
strange  that  you  should  listen  to  me  quietly, 
as  if.it  were  the  most  usual  thing  in  the  world 
for  a  man  like  me  to  tell  stories  of  his  opera- 
mistresses  to  a  quaint,  inexperienced  girl  like 
you  !  But  the  last  singularity  explains  the 
tirst,  as  I  intimated  once  before  :  you,  with 
your  gravity,  considerateness.  and  caution  were 
made  to  be  the  recipient  of  secrets.  Besides, , 
I  know  what  sort  of  a  mind  I  have  placed  in 
communication  with  my  own— I  know  it  is  one 
not  liable  to  take  infection :  it  is  a  peculiar  mind  ; 
it  is  a  unique  one.  Happily  I  do  not  mean  to 
harm  it  :  but  if  I  did,  it  would  not  take  harm 
from  me.  The  more  you  and  I  converse  the 
better :  for  while  I  can  not  blight  you,  you 
may  refresh  me."  After  this  digression  he 
proceeded. 

"I  remained  in  the  balcony.  'They  will 
come  to  her  boudoir  no  doubt,'  thought  I :  'let 
me  prepare  an  ambush.'  So,  putting  my  hand 
in  through  the  open  window,  I  drew  the  curtain 
over  it,  leaving  only  an  opening  through  which 
I  could  take  observations ;  then  I  closed  the 
casement,  all  but  a  chink  just  wide  enough  to 
furnish  an  outlet  to  'lovers'  whispered  vows.' 
then  I  stole  back  to  my  chair ;  and  as  I  resumed 
it  the  pair  came  in.     My  eye  was  quickly  at  the 


66 


JANE  EYRE. 


aperture.  Celine's  chambermaid  entered,  light- 
ed a  lamp,  left  it  on  the  table  and  withdrew. 
The  couple  were  thus  revealed  to  me  clearly  ; 
both  removed  their  cloaks,  and  there  was  '  the 
Varans'  shining  in  satin  and  jewels — my  gifts 
of  course — and  there  was  her  companion  in  an 
officer's  uniform ;  and  I  knew  him  for  a  young 
roue  of  a  vicomte — a  brainless  and  vicious 
youth  whom  I  had  sometimes  met  in  society, 
and  had  never  thought  of  hating  because  I  de- 
spised him  so  absolutely.  On  recognizing  him, 
the  fang  of  the  snake — ^jealousy,  was  instantly 
broken  ;  because  at  the  same  moment  my  love 
for  Celine  sunk  under  an  extinguisher.  A 
woman  who  could  betray  me  for  such  a  rival 
was  not  worth  contending  for ;  she  deserved 
only  scorn  ;  less,  however,  than  I,  who  had  been 
her  dupe." 

They  began  to  talk  ;  their  conversation  eased 
me  completely :  frivolous,  mercenary,  heartless, 
and  senseless,  it  was  rather  calculated  to  weary 
than  enrage  a  listener.  A  card  of  mine  lay  on 
the  table ;  this  being  perceived  brought  my 
name  under  discussion.  Neither  of  them  pos- 
sessed energy  or  wit  to  belabor  me  soundly ; 
but  they  insulted  me  as  coarsely  as  they  could 
in  their  little  way  :  especially  Celine  ;  who  even 
waxed  rather  brilliant  on  my  personal  defects 
— deformities  she  termed  them.  Now  it  had 
been  her  custom  to  lanch  out  into  fervent  ad- 
miration of  what  she  called  my  'beaute  male  ;' 
wherein  she  differed  diametrically  from  you, 
who  told  me  point-blank  at  the  second  inter- 
view, that  you  did  not  think  me  handsome. 
The  contrast  struck  me  at  the  time,  and— ^" 

Adele  here  came  running  up  again. 

"  Monsieur,  John  has  just  been  to  say  that 
your  agent  has  called  and  wishes  to  see  you." 

"  Ah  !  in  that  case  I  must  abridge.  Opening 
the  window,  I  walked  in  upon  them  ;  liberated 
Celine  from  my  protection ;  gave  her  notice  to 
vacate  her  hotel ;  offered  her  a  purse  for  im- 
mediate exigencies ;  disregarded  screams,  hys- 
terics, prayers,  protestations,  convulsions ; 
made  an  appointment  with  the  vicomte  for  a 
meeting  at  the  Bois  dc  Boulogne.  Next  morn- 
ing I  had  the  pleasure  of  encountering  him  ; 
left  a  bullet  in  one  of  his  poor,  etiolated  arms, 
feeble  as  the  wing  of  a  chicken  in  the  pip,  and 
then  thought  I  had  done  with  the  whole  crew. 
But,  unluckily,  the  Varens,  six  months  before, 
had  given  me  this  fillette  Adele,  who  she  af- 
firmed was  my  daughter ;  and  perhaps  she  may 
be,  though  I  see  no  proofs  of  such  grim  pater- 
nity written  in  her  countenance  ;  Pilot  is  more 
like  me  than  she.  Some  years  after  I  had  bro- 
ken with  the  mother,  she  abandoned  her  child 
and  ran  away  to  Italy  with  a  musician,  or 
singer.  I  acknowledged  no  natural  claim  on 
Adele's  part  to  be  supported  by  me  ;  nor  do  I 
now  acknowledge  any,  for  I  am  not  her  father ; 
but  hearing  that  she  was  quite  destitute,  I  e'en 
took  the  poor  thing  out  of  the  slime  and  mud 
of  Paris,  and  transplanted  it  here,  to  grow  up 
clean  in  the  wholesome  soil  of  an  English  coun- 
try garden.  Mrs.  Fairfax  found  you  to  train  it ; 
but  now  you  know  that  it  is  the  illegitimate  off- 
spring of  a  French  opera  girl,  you  will  perhaps 
think  differently  of  your  post  and  protegee  ;  you 
•will  be  commg  to  mc  some  day  with  notice  that 
you  have  found  another  place — that  you  beg 
me  to  look  out  for  a  new  governess,  &c.— eh  ?" 


"  No — Adele  is  not  answerable  for  either  her 
mother's  faults  or  yours ;  I  have  a  regard  for 
her,  and  now  that  I  know  she  is,  in  a  sense, 
parentless — forsaken  by  her  mother  and  dis- 
owned by  you,  sir— I  shall  cling  closer  to  her 
than  before.  How  could  I  possibly  prefer  the 
spoiled  pet  of  a  wealthy  family,  who  would  hate 
her  governess  as  a  nuisance,  to  a  lonely  little 
orphan,  who  leans  toward  her  as  a  friend  ?" 

"  Oh,  that  is  the  light  in  which  you  view  it! 
Well,  I  must  go  in  now  ;  and  you  too  ;  it  dark- 
ens." 

But  I  stayed  out  a  few  minutes  longer  with 
Adele  and  Pilot — ran  a  race  with  her,  and  play- 
ed a  game  of  battledore  and  shuttlecock. 
When  we  went  in  and  I  had  removed  her  bon- 
net and  coat,  I  took  her  on  my  knee,  kept  her 
there  an  hour,  allowing  her  to  prattle  as  she 
liked,  not  rebuking  even  some  little  freedoms 
and  trivialities  into  which  she  was  apt  to  stray 
when  much  noticed  ;  and  which  betrayed  in  her 
a  superficiality  of  character,  inherited  probably 
from  her  mother,  hardly  congenial  to  an  En- 
glish mind.  Still  she  had  her  merits  ;  and  I 
was  disposed  to  appreciate  all  that  was  good  in 
her  to  the  utmost.  I  sought  in  her  countenance 
and  features  a  likeness  to  Mr.  Rochester,  but 
found  none ;  no  trait,  no  turn  of  expressioii 
announced  relationship.  It  was  a  pity ;  if  she 
could  but  have  been  proved  to  resemble  him, 
he  would  have  thought  more  of  her. 

It  was  not  till  after  I  had  withdrawn  to  my 
own  chamber  for  the  night,  that  I  steadily  re- 
viewed the  tale  Mr.  Rochester  had  told  me. 
As  he  had  said,  there  was  probably  nothing  at 
all  extraordinary  in  the  substance  of  the  nar- 
rative itself:  a  wealthy  Englishman's  passion 
for  a  French  dancer,  and  her  treachery  to  him, 
were  every-day  matters  enough,  no  doubt,  in 
society ;  but  there  was  something  decidedly 
strange  in  the  paroxysm  of  emotion  which  had 
suddenly  seized  him,  when  he  was  in  the  act 
of  expressing  the  present  contentment  of  his 
mood,  and  his  newly-revived  pleasure  in  the 
old  hall  and  its  environs.  I  meditated  wonder 
ingly  on  this  incident ;  but  gradually  quitting 
it,  as  I  found  it  for  the  present  inexplicable,  I 
turned  to  the  consideration  of  my  master's 
manner  to  myself  The  confidence  he  had 
thought  fit  to  repose  in  me  seemed  a  tribute 
to  my  discretion  ;  I  regarded  and  accepted  it 
as  such.  His  deportment  had  now  for  some 
weeks  been  more  uniform  toward  me  than 
at  first.  I  never  seemed  in  his  way  ;  he  did 
not  take  fits  of  chilling  hauteur  ;  when  he  met 
me  unexpectedly  the  encounter  seemed  wel- 
come ;  he  had  always  a  word  and  sometimes  a 
smile  for  me  ;  when  summoned  by  formal  in- 
vitation to  his  presence,  I  was  honored  by  a 
cordiality  of  reception  that  made  me  feel  1 
really  possessed  the  power  to  amuse  him,  and 
that  these  evening  conferences  were  sought  as 
much  for  his  pleasure  as  for  my  benefit. 

I,  indeed,  talked  comparatively  little  ;  but  I 
heard  him  talk  with  relish.  It  was  his  nature 
to  be  communicative  ;  he  liked  to  open  to  a 
mind  unacquainted  with  the  world,  glimpses  of 
its  scenes  and  ways  (I  do  not  mean  its  corrupt 
scenes  and  wicked  ways,  but  such  as  derived* 
their  interest  from  the  great  scale  on  vvhicl* 
they  were  acted,  ihe  strange  novelty  by  which 
they  were  characterized);  and  I -had   a  keen 


JANE  EYRE. 


57 


delight  in  receiving  the  now  ideas  he  offered, 
in  imagining  the  new  pictures  he  portrayed,  and 
following  him  in  thought  through  the  new  re- 
gions he  disclosed  ;  never  startled  or  troubled 
by  one  noxious  allusion. 

The  ease  of  his  manner  freed  me  from  pain- 
ful restraint ;  the  friendly  frankness,  as  correct 
as  cordial,  with  which  he  treated  me,  drew  me 
to  him.  I  felt  at  times,  as  if  he  were  my  rela- 
tion, rather  than  my  master,  yet  he  was  impe- 
rious sometimes  still,  but  I  did  not  mind  that,  I 
saw  it  was  his  way.  So  happy,  so  gratified  did 
1  become  with  this  new  interest  added  to  life, 
that  I  ceased  to  pine  after  kindred :  my  thin 
crescent-destiny  seemed  to  enlarge,  the  blanks 
of  existence  were  filled  up,  my  bodily  health 
improved  ;  I  gathered  iiesh  and  strength. 

And  was  Mr.  Rochester  now  ugly  in  my 
eyes  1  No,  reader :  gratitude,  and  many  asso- 
ciations, all  pleasurable  and  genial,  made  his 
face  the  object  I  best  liked  to  see  ;  his  pres- 
ence in  a  room  was  more  cheering  than  the 
brightest  fire.  Yet  I  had  not  forgotten  his 
faults,  indeed,  I  could  not,  for  he  brought  them 
frequently  before  me.  He  was  proud,  sardonic, 
harsh  to  inferiority  of  every  description ;  in 
my  secret  soul  I  knew  that  his  great  kindness 
to  me  was  balanced  by  unjust  severity  to  oth- 
ers. He  was  moody,  too,  unaccountably  so ; 
I  more  than  once,  when  sent  for  to  read  to 
him,  found  him  sitting  in  his  library  alone,  with 
his  head  bent  on  his  folded  arms ;  and,  when 
he  looked  up,  a  morose,  almost  a  malignant, 
scowl  blackened  his  features.  But  I  believe 
that  his  moodiness,  his  harshness,  and  his  for- 
mer faults  of  morality  (I  say  former,  for  now 
he  seemed  corrected  of  them)  had  their  source 
in  some  cruel  cross  of  fate.  I  believed  he 
was  naturally  a  man  of  better  tendencies,  high- 
er principles,  and  purer  tastes  than  such  as 
circumstances  had  developed,  education  in- 
stilled, or  destiny  encouraged.  I  thought  there 
"Were  excellent  materials  in  him,  though  for  the 
present  they  hung  together  somewhat  spoiled 
and  tangled.  I  can  not  deny-  that  I  grieved  for 
his  grief,  whatever  that  was,  and  would  have 
given  EQUch  to  assuage  it. 

Though  I  had  now  extinguished  my  candle 
and  was  laid  down  in  bed,  I  could  not  sleep, 
for  thinking  of  his  look  when  he  paused  in  the 
avenue,  and  told  how  his  destiny  had  risen  up 
before  him  and  dared  him  to  be  happy  at  Thorrl^ 
field. 

"WhynotV'I  asked  myself:  "what  alien- 
ates him  from  the  house  T  Will  he  leave  it 
again  soon  1  Mrs.  Fairfax  said  he  seldom 
stayed  here  longer  than  a  fortnight. at  a  time, 
and  he  has  now  been  resident  eight  weeks.  If 
he  does  go  the  change  will  be  doleful.  Suppose 
he  should  be  absent,  spring,  summer,  and  au- 
tumn, how  joyless  sunshine  and  fine  davs  will 
seem !" 

I  hardly  know  whether  I  had  slept  or  not  af- 
ter this  musing  ;  at  any  rate  I  started  wide 
awake  on  hearing  a  vague  murmur,  peculiar 
and  lugubrious,  which  sounded,  I  thought,  just 
above  me.  I  wished  I  had  kept  my  candle 
burning  :  the  night  was  drearily  dark,  my  spirits 
were  depressed.  I  rose  and  sat  up  in  bed,  lis- 
tening.    The  sound  was  hushed. 

I  tried  again  to  sleep,  but  my  heart  beat  anx- 
iously, ray  inward  tranquillity  was  broken.    The 


clock,  far  down  in  the  hall,  struck  two.  Just 
then  it  seemed  my  chamber-door  was  touched, 
as  if  fingers  had  swept  the  panels  in  groping  a 
way  along  the  dark  galle/y  outside.  I  said, 
"Who  is  there'!"  Nothing  answered.  I  was 
chilled  with  fear. 

All  at  once  I  remembered  that  it  might  be 
Pilot ;  who,  when  the  kitchen-door  chanced  to 
be  left  open,  not  unfrequently  found  his  way 
up  to  the  threshold  of  Mr.  Rochester's  cham- 
ber ;  I  had  seen  him  lying  there  myself  in  the 
mornings.  The  idea  calmed  me  somewhat  ;  I 
laid  down.  Silence  composes  the  nerves,  and 
as  an  unbroken  hush  now  reigned  again  through 
the  whole  house,  I  began  to  feel  the  return  of 
slumber.  But  it  was  not  fated  that  I  should 
sleep  that  night.  A  dream  had  scarcely  ap- 
proached my  ear,  when  it  fled  affrighted,  scared 
by  a  marrow-freezing  incident  enough. 

This  was  a  demoniac  laugh ;  low,  suppressed, 
and  deep,  muttered,  as  it  seemed,  at  the  very 
keyhole  of  my  chamber-door.  The  head  of 
my  bed  was  near  the  door,  and  I  thought  at 
first  the  goblin-laugher  stood  at  my  bedside, 
or,  rather,  crouched  by  my  pillow ;  but  I  rose, 
looked  round,  and  could  see  nothing  ;  while,  as 
I  still  gazed,  the  unnatural  sound  was  reitera- 
ted, and  I  knew  it  came  from  behind  the  pan- 
els. My  first  impulse  was  to  rise  and  fasten 
the  bolt ;  my  next,  again  to  cry  out,  "  Who  is 
there  1" 

Something  gurgled  and  moaned.  Ere  long, 
steps  retreated  up  the  gallery  toward  the  third 
story  stair-case ;  a  door  had  lately  been  made  to 
shut  in  that  stair-case ;  I  heard  it  open  and 
close,  and  all  was  still. 

"Was  that  Grace  Poole  1  and  is  she  pos- 
sessed with  a  deviH"  thought  I.  Impossible 
now  to  remain  longer  by  myself,  I  must  go  to 
Mrs.  Fairfax.  I  hurried  on  my  frock  and  a 
shawl ;  I  withdrew  the  bolt  and  opened  the 
door  with  a  trembling  hand.  There  was  a  can- 
dle burning  just  outside,  left  on  the  matting  in 
the  gallery.  I  was  surprised  at  this  circum- 
stance, but  still  more  was  I  amazed  to  perceive 
the  air  quite  dim,  as  if  filled  with  smoke  ;  and, 
while  looking  to  the  right  hand  and  left,  to  find 
whence  these  \)\x\e  wreaths  issued,  I  became 
further  aware  of  a  strong  smell  of  burning. 

Something  creaked  ;  it  was  a  door  ajar  :  and 
that  door  was  Mr.  Rochester's,  and  the  smoke 
rushed  in  a  cloud  from  thence.  I  thought  no 
more  of  Mrs.  Fairfax ;  I  thought  no  more  of 
Grace  Poole  or  the  laugh  ;  in  an  iilstant  I  was 
within  the  chamber.  Tongues  of  flame  darted 
round  the  bed ;  the  curtains  were  on  fire.  In 
the  midst  of  blaze  and  vapor,  Mr.  Rochester  lay 
stretched  motionless,  in  deep  sleep. 

"Wake  !  wake  !"  I  cried — I  shook  him,  but 
he  only  murmured  and  turned  ;  the  smoke  had 
stupefied  him.  Not  a  moment  could  be  lost; 
the  very  sheets  were  kindling.  I  rushed  to  his 
basin  and  ewer ;  fortunately,  one  was  wide 
and  the  other  deep,  and  both  were  filled  with 
water.  I  heaved  them  up,  deluged  the  bed^nd 
its  occupant,  flew  back  to  my  own  room,  brought 
my  own  water-jug,  baptised  the  couch  afresh, 
and  by  God's  aid,  succeeded  in  extinguishing 
the  flames  which  were  devouring  it. 

The  hiss  of  the  quenched  element,  the  break 
age  of  a  pitcher  which  I  flung  from  my  hand 
when  I  bad  emptied  it,  and  above  all,  tbe  splash 


58 


JANE  EYRE. 


of  the  shower-bath  1  had  liberally  bestowed, 
roused  Mr.  Rochester  at  last.  Though  it  was 
now  dark,  I  knew  he  was  awake  ;  because  I 
heard  him  fulminating  strange  anathemas  at 
finding  himself  lying  in  a  pool  of  water. 

"  Is  there  a  flood  V  he  cried. 

"  No,  sir,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  there  has  been 
a  fire  ;  get  up,  do,  you  are  quenched  now  ;  I 
will  fetch  you  a  candle  " 

'•  In  the  name  of  all  the  elves  in  Christendom, 
is  that  Jane  Eyre  1"  he  demanded.  "  What 
have  you  done  with  me,  witch,  sorceress  1 
Who  is  in  the  room  besides  you !  Have  you 
plotted  to  drown  me  1" 

"  I  will  fetch  you  a  candle,  sir  ;  and  in  Heav- 
en's name,  get  up.  Somebody  has  plotted  some- 
thing ;  you  can  not  too  soon  find  out  who  and 
what  It  is.'' 

"There — I  am  up  now;  but  at  your  peril 
you  fetch  a  candle  yet ;  wait  two  minutes  till  I 
get  into  some  dry  garments,  if  any  dry  there  be 
— yes,  here  is  my  dressing-gown,  now  run  !" 

I  did  run  ;  I  brought  the  candle  which  still 
remained  in  the  gallery.  He  took  it  from  my 
hand,  held  it  up,  and  surveyed  the  bed,  all 
blackened  and  scorched,  the  sheets  drenched, 
the  carpet  round  swimming  in  water. 

"  What  is  it  1  and  who  did  it  V  he  asked. 

I  briefly  related  to  him  what  had  transpired  ; 
the  strange  laugh  I  had  heard  in  the  gallery ; 
the  step  ascending  to  the  third  story  ;  the 
smoke — the  smell  of  fire  which  had  conducted 
me  to  his  room  ;  in  what  state  I  had  found 
matters  there,  and  how  I  had  deluged  him  with 
all  the  water  I  could  lay  hands  on. 

He  listened  very  gravely  ;  his  face,  as  I  went 
on,  expressed  more  concern  than  astonishment ; 
he  did  not  immediately  speak  when  I  had  con- 
cluded. 

"  Shall  I  call  Mrs.  Fairfax  1"  I  asked. 

"  Mrs.  Fairfax  1  No — what  the  deuce  would 
you  call  her  for  1  What  can  she  do  1  Let  her 
sleep  unmolested." 

"Then. I  will  fetch  Leah,  and  wake  John  and 
his  wife." 

"  Not  at  all ;  just  be  still.  You  have  a  shawl 
on  ;  if  you  are  not  warm  enough,  you  may  take 
my  cloak  yonder  ;  wrap  it  about  you,  and  sit 
down  in  the  arm-chair ;  there — I  will  put  it  on. 
Now  place  your  feet  on  the  stool,  to  keep  them 
out  of  the  wet.  I  am  going  to  leave  you  a  few 
minutes.  I  shall  take  the  candle.  Remain 
where  you  are  till  I  return  ;  be  as  still  as  a 
mouse.  I  must  pay  a  visit  to  this  second  story. 
Don't  move,  remember,  or  call  any  one." 

He  went ;  I  watched  the  light  withdraw.  He 
passed  up  the  gallery  very  softly,  unclosed  the 
stair-case  door  with  as  little  noise  as  possible, 
shut  it  after  him,  and  the  last  ray  vanished.  I 
was  left  in  total  darkness.  I  listened  for  some 
noise,  but  heard  nothing.  A  very  long  time 
elapsed.  I  grew  weary ;  it  was  cold,  in  spite 
of  the  cloak  ;  and  then  I  did  not  see  the  use  of 
staying,  as  I  was  not  to  rouse  the  house.  I 
was  on  the  point  of  risking  Mr.  Rochester's 
displeasure,  by  disobeying  his  orders,  when  the 
light  once  more  gleamed  dimly  on  the  gallery- 
wall,  and  I  heard  his  unshod  feet  tread  the 
matting.  "  I  hope  it  is  he,"  thought  I,  "  and 
not  something  worse." 

He  re-entered  pale  and  very  gloomy.  "  I 
have   found  it   all   out,"  said  "he,  selling  his 


candle  down  on  the  wash-stand  ;   "  it  is  as  I 
thought." 

"  How,  sir  r' 

He  made  no  reply,  but  stood  with  his  arms 
folded,  looking  on  the  ground.  At  the  end  of  a 
few  minutes  he  inquired,  in  rather  a  peculiar 
tone — 

"  I  forget  whether  you  said  you  saw  any 
thing  when  you  opened  your  chamber-door." 

"No,  sir,  only  the  candlestick  on  the  ground." 

"But  you  heard  an  odd  laugh  1  You  have 
heard  that  laugh  before  I  should  think,  or  some- 
thing like  iti" 

"Yes,  sir;  there  is  a  woman  who  sews  here, 
called  Grace  Poole — she  laughs  in  that  way. 
She  is  a  singular  person." 

"Just  so.  Grace  Poole  r  you  have  guessed 
it.  She  is,  as  you  say,  singular — very.  Well, 
I  shall  reflect  on  the  subject.  Meantime,  I  am 
glad  that  you  are  the  only  person,  besides  my- 
self, acquainted  with  the  precise  details  of  to- 
night's incident.  You  are  no  talking  fool  ;  say 
nothing  about  it.  I  will  account  for  this  state 
of  afl'airs  (pointing  to  the  bed) :  and  now  return 
to  your  own  room.  I  shall  do  very  well  on  the 
sofa  in  the  library  for  the  rest  of  the  night.  It 
is  near  four  ;  in  two  hours  the  servants  will  be 
up." 

"  Good-night  then,  sir,"  said  I,  departing. 

He  seemed  surprised — very  inconsistently  so, 
as  he  had  just  told  me  to  go. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "are  you  quitting 
me  already  ;  and  in  that  way  1" 

"  You  said  I  might  go,  sir." 

"  But  not  without  taking  leave  ;  not  without 
a  word  or  two  of  acknowledgment  and  good 
will ;  not,  in  short,  in  that  brief,  dry  fashion. 
Why,  you  have  saved  my  life  !  snatched  me 
from  a  horrible  and  excruciating  death  !  and 
you  walk  past  me  as  if  we  were  mutual  stran- 
gers !     At  least  shake  hands." 

He  held  out  his  hand  ;  I  gave  him  mine  :  he 
took  it  first  in  one,  then  in  both  his  own. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life  ;  I  have  a  pleasure 
in  owing  you  so  immense  a  debt.  I  can  not 
say  more.  Nothing  else  that  has  being  would 
have  been  tolerable  to  me  in  the  character  of 
creditor  for  such  an  obligation ;  but  you.  it  is 
different — I  feel  your  benefits  no  burden,  Jane." 

He  paused  ;  gazed  at  me  ;  words  almost  visi- 
ble trembled  on  his  lips — but  his  voice  was 
checked. 

"  Good-night  again,  sir.  There  is  no  debt, 
benefit,  burden,  obligation  in  the  case." 

"  I  knew,"  he  continued,  "  you  would  do  me 
good  in  some  way,  at  some  time  ;  I  saw  it  in 
your  eyes  when  I  first  beheld  you  ;  their  ex- 
pression and  smile  did  not — (again  he,  stopped) 
— did  not  (he  proceeded,  hastily)  strike  delight 
to  my  very  inmost  heart  so  for  nothing.  Peo- 
ple talk  of  natural  sympathies  ;  I  have  heard 
of  good  genii ;  there  are  grains  of  truth  in  the 
wildest  fable.  My  cherished  preserver,  good- 
night !" 

Strange  energy  w'as  in  his  voice ;  strange 
fire  in  his  look. 

"  I  am  glad  I  happened  to  be  awake,"  I  said  , 
and  then  I  was  going. 

"  What,  you  icill  go  ;" 

"  I  am  cold,  sir." 

"  Cold  ?  Yes— and  standing  in  a  pool.  Go 
then.  .Tane  :   go !"    But  he  still  retained  my 


JANE  EYRE. 


59 


hand,  and  I  could  not  free  it.  I  bethought  my- 
self of  an  expedient. 

"  I  think  I  hear  Mrs.  Fairfax  move,  sir," 
said  I. 

"  Well,  leave  me  :"  he  relaxed  his  fingers, 
and  I  was  gone. 

I  regained  my  couch,  but  never  thought  of 
sleep.  Till  morning  dawned  I  was  tossed  on 
a  buoyant  but  unquiet  sea,  where  billows  of 
trouble  rolled  under  surges  of  joy.  I  thought 
sometimes  I  saw  beyond  its  wild  waters  a 
shore,  sweet  as  the  hills  of  Beulah  ;  and  now 
and  then  a  freshening  gale,  wakened  by  hope, 
bore  my  spirit  triumphantly  toward  the  bourne ; 
but  I  could  not  reach  it,  even  in  fancy — a  coun- 
teracting breeze  blew  off  land,  and  continually 
drove  me  back.  Sense  would  resist  delirium  ; 
judgment  would  warn  passion.  Too  feverish 
to  rest,  I  rose  as  soon  as  day  dawned. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

I  BOTH  wished  and  feared  to  see  Mr.  Roches- 
ter on  the  day  which  followed  this  sleepless 
night  ;  I  wanted  to  hear  his  voice  again,  yet 
feared  to  meet  his  eye.  During  the  early  part 
of  the  morning,  I  momentarily  expected  his 
coming.  He  was  not  in  the  frequent  habit  of 
'.  entering  the  school- room  ;  but  he  did  step  in  for 
a  few  minutes  sometimes,  and  I  had  the  impres- 
sion that  he  was  sure  to  visit  it  tliat  day. 

But  the  morning  passed  just  as  usual ;  noth- 
ing happened  to  interrupt  the  quiet  course  of 
;e's  studies  ;  only,  soon  after  breakfast,  I 
..•■.ird  some  bustle  in  the  neighborhood  of  Mr. 
Rochester's  chamber,  Mrs.  Fairfax's  voice,  and 
Leah's,  and  the  cook's — that  is,  John's  wife — and 
even  John's  own  gruff  tones.  There  were  ex- 
clamations of  "  What  a  mercy  master  was  not 
burned  in  his  bed  !"  "It  is  always  dangerous 
to  keep  a  candle  lit  at  night."  "  How  provi- 
;  dential  that  he  had  presence  of  mind  to  think 
'  of  the  water-jug!"'  "I  wonder  he  waked  no- 
I  body  !"  "  It  is  to  be  hoped  he  will  not  take 
cold  with  sleeping  on  the  library  sofa,"  &c. 

To  much  confabulation  succeeded  a  sound  of 
scrubbing  and  setting  to  rights  ;  and  when  I 
passed  the  room,  in  going  down  stairs  to  din- 
ner, I  saw  through  the  open  door  that  all  was 
again  restored  to  complete  order,  only  the  bed 
was  stripped  of  its  hangings.  Leah  stood  up 
in  the  window-seat,  rubbing  the  panes  of  glass 
dimmed  with  smoke.  I  was  about  to  address 
her,  for  I  wished  to  know  what  account  had 
been  given  of  the  affair ;  but,  on  advancing,  I 
saw  a  second  person  in  the  chamber — a  woman 
sitting  on  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  and  sewing 
rings  to  new  curtains.  That  woman  was  no 
other  than  Grace  Poole. 

Tliere  she  sat,  staid  and  taciturn-looking,  as 
usual,  in  her  brown  stuff  gown,  her  check  apron, 
white  handkerchief,  and  cap.  She  was  intent 
on  her  work,  in  which  her  whole  thoughts 
seemed  absorbed  ;  on  her  hard  forehead,  and  in 
ber  commonplace  features,  was  nothing  either 
of  the  paleness  or  desperation  one  would  have 
expected  to  see  marking  the  countenance  of  a 
woman  who  had  attempted  murder,  and  whose 
intended  victim  had  followed  her  last  night  to 
her  lair,  and,  as  I  believed,  charged  her  with  the 
crime  she  wished  to  perpetrate.     I  was  amazed 


— confounded.  She  looked  up  while  I  still  gazed 
at  her ;  no  start,  no  increase  or  failure  of  color 
betrayed  emotion,  consciousness  of  guilt,  or  fear 
of  detection.  She  said, "  Good  morning,  miss," 
in  her  usual  phlegmatic  and  brief  manner  ;  and^ 
taking  up  another  ring  and  more  tape,  went  on 
with  her  sewing. 

"I  will  put  her  to' some  test,"  thought  I  ; 
"  such  absolute  impenetrability  is  past  compre- 
hension." 

"  Good  morning,  Grace,"  I  said.  "Has  any 
thing  happened  here"!  I  thought  I  heard  tho 
servants  all  talking  together  a  while  ago." 

"  Only  master  had  been  reading  in  his  bed 
last  night;  he  fell  asleep  with  his  candle  lit, 
and  the  curtains  got  on  fire  ;  but,  fortunately, 
he  awoke  before  the  bed-clothes  or  the  wood- 
work caught,  and  contrived-to  quench  the  flame 
with  the  water  in  the  ewer." 

"A  strange  affair  !"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice  ; 
then,  looking  at  her  fixedly — "  Did  Mr.  Roch- 
ester wake  nobody  1  Did  bo  one  bear  him: 
movel" 

She  again  raised  her  eyes  to  me,  and  this 
time  there  was  something  of  consciousness  in 
their  expression.  She  seemed  to  examine  me 
warily  ;  then  she  answered — 

"  The  servants  sleep  so  far  off,  you  know,' 
miss,  they  would  not  be  likely  to  hear.  Mrs. 
Fairfax's  room  and  yours  are  the  nearest  to 
master's ;  but  Mrs.  Fairfax  said  she  heard  noth- 
ing. When  people  get  elderly,  they  often  sleep 
heavy."  She  paused,  and  then  added,  with  a 
sort  of  assumed  indifference,  but  still  in  a  mark- 
ed and  significant  tone,  "  But  you  are  young, 
miss,  and  I  should  say  a  light  sleeper  ;  perhaps 
you  may  have  heard  a  noise  V\ 

"  I  did,"  said  I,  dropping  my  voice,  so  tha 
Leah,  who  was  still  polishing  the  panes,  could 
not  hear  me  ;  "  and  at  first  I  thought  it  was 
Pilot;  but  Pilot  can  not  laugh  ;  and  I  am  cer- 
tain I  heard  a  laugh,  and  a  strange  one." 

She  took  a  new  needleful  of  thread,  waxed  it 
carefully,  threaded  her  needle  vi'ith  a  steady  hand, 
and  then  observed,  with  perfect  composure — 

"It  is  hardly  likely  master  would  laugh,  I 
should  think,  miss,  when  he  was  in  such  dan- 
ger ;  you  must  have  been  dreaming." 

"  I  was  not  dreaming,"  I  said,  with  some 
warmth,  for  her  brazen  coolness  provoked  me. 
Again  she  looked  at  me,  and  with  the  same 
scrutinizing  and  conscious  eye. 

"  Have  you  told  master  that  you  heard  a 
laugh""  she  inquired. 

"  I  have  not  had  the  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  him  this  morning." 

"  You  did  not  think  of  opening  your  door 
and  looking  out  into  the  gallery  1"  she  further 
asked. 

She  appeared  to  be  cross-questioning  me — 
attempting  to  draw  from  me  information  una- 
wares ;  the  idea  struck  me  that  if  she  discover- 
ed I  knew  or  suspected  her  guilt,  she  would  be 
playing  off  some  of  her  malignant  pranks  on 
me  ;  I  thought  it  advisable  to  be  on  my  guard. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "  I  bolted  my 
door." 

"  Then  you  are  not  in  the  habit  of  bolting 
your  door  every  night  before  you  get  into  bed  V 

Fiend  !  she  wants  to  know  my  habits,  that 
she  may  lay  her  plans  accordingly  I  Indigna- 
tion again  prevailed  over  prudence.     I  replied, 


60 


JANE  EYRE. 


sharply,  "  Hitherto  I  have  often  omitted  to  fas- 
ten the  bolt— I  did  not  think  it  necessary.  I 
was  not  aware  any  danger  or  annoyance  was  to 
be  dreaded  at  Thornfield  Hall  ;  but  in  future 
(and  I  laid  marked  stress  on  the  words)  I  shall 
take  good  care  to  make  all  secure  before  I  ven- 
ture to  lie  down." 

"  It  will  be  wise  so  to  do,"  was  her  answer. 
"  This  neighborhood  is  as  quiet  as  any  I  know, 
and  I  never  heard  of  the  Hall  being  attempted 
by  robbers  since  it  was  a  house  ;  though  there 
are  hundreds  of  pounds'  worth  of  plate  in  the 
plate-closet,  as  is  well  known.  And,  you  see, 
for  such  a  large  house  there  are  very  few  ser- 
vants, because  master  has  never  lived  here 
much  ;  and  when  he  does  come,  being  a  bache- 
lor, he  needs  little  waiting  on  ;  but  I  always 
think  it  best  to  err  on  the  safe  side ;  a  door  is 
soon  fastened,  and  it  is  as  well  to  have  a  drawn 
bolt  between  one  and  any  mischief  that  may  be 
about.  A  deal  of  people,  miss,  are  for  trusting 
all  to  Providence  ;  but  I  say  Providence  will 
not  dispense  with  the  means,  though  he  often 
blesses  them  when  they  are  used  discreetly." 
And  here  she  closed  her  harangue — a  long  one 
for  her,  and  uttered  with  the  demureness  of  a 
Quakeress. 

I  still  stood  absolutely  dumbfoundered  at  what 
appeared  to  rae  her  miraculous  self-possession 
and  most  inscrutable  hypocrisy,  when  the  cook 
entered. 

"  Mrs.  Poole,"  said  she,  addressing  Grace, 
"  the  servants'  dinner  will  soon  be  ready ;  will 
you  come  down  ?" 

"  No ;  just  put  my  pint  of  porter  and  a  bit  of 
pudding  on  a  tray,  and  I'll  carry  it  up  stairs  " 

"You'll  have  some  meaf!" 

"  Just  a  morsel,  and  a  taste  of  cheese — that's 
all." 

"And  the  sago-" 

"  Never  mind  it,  at  present ;  I  shall  be  com- 
ing down  before  tea-time ;  I'll  make  it  myself" 

ThiD  cook  here  turned  to  me,  saying  that  Mrs. 
Fairfax  was  waiting  for  me  ;  so  I  departed. 

I  hardly  heard  Mrs.  Fairfax's  account  of  the 
curtain  conflagration  during  dinner,  so  much 
was  I  occupied  in  puzzling  my  brains  over  the 
enigmatical  character  of  Grace  Poole,  and  still 
more  in  pondering  the  problem  of  her  position 
at  Thornfield  ;  in  questioning  why  she  had  not 
been  given  into  custody  that  morning,  or  at  the 
very  least  dismissed  from  her  master's  service. 
He  had  almost  as  much  as  declared  his  convic- 
tion of  her  criminality  last  night ;  what  myste- 
rious cause  withheld  him  from  accusing  herl 
Why  had  he  enjoined  me  to  secresyl  It  was 
strange — a  bold,  vindictive,  and  haughty  gen- 
tleman seemed  somehow  in  the  power  of  one 
of  the  meanest  of  his  dependents  ;  so  much  in 
her  power  that  even  when  she  lifted  her  hand 
against  his  life  he  dared  not  openly  charge  her 
"With  the  attempt,  much  less  punish  her  for  it. 

Had  Grace  been  young  and  handsome,  I 
should  have  been  tempted  to  think  that  tender- 
er feelings  than  prudence  or  fear  influenced  Mr. 
Rochester  in  her  behalf;  but,  hard- favored  and 
matronly  as  she  was,  the  idea  could  not  be  ad- 
mitted. "Yet,"  I  reflected,  "she  has  been 
young  once — her  youth  would  be  cotemporary 
■with  her  master's  ;  Mrs.  Fairfax  told  me,  once, 
she  had  lived  here  many  years.  I  don't  think 
she  caa  ever  have  been  pretty  ;  but,  for  aught  I 


know,  she  may  possess  originality  and  strength 
of  character  to  compensate  for  the  want  of  per- 
sonal advantages.  Mr.  Rochester  is  an  ama- 
teur of  the  decided  and  eccentric ;  Grace  is 
eccentric  at  least.  What  if  a  former  caprice  (a 
freak  very  possible  to  a  nature  so  sudden  and 
headstrong  as  his)  has  dehvered  him  into  her 
power,  and  she  now  exercises  over  his  actions 
a  secret  influence,  the  result  of  his  own  indis- 
cretion, which  he  can  not  shake  ofl',  and  dare 
not  disregard  1"  But,  having  reached  this  point 
of  conjecture,  Mrs.  Poole's  square,  flat  figure, 
and  uncomely,  dry,  even  coarse  face,  recurred 
so  distinctly  to  my  mind's  eye,  that  I  thought, 
"  No ;  impossible  !  my  supposition  can  not  be 
correct.  Yet,"  suggested  the  secret  voice 
which  talks  to  us  in  our  own  hearts,  "  you  are 
not  beautiful,  either,  and  perhaps  Mr.  Rochester 
approves  you  ;  at  any  rate,  you  have  often  felt 
as  if  he  did ;  and  last  night — remember  his 
words ;  remember  his  look ;  remember  his 
voice !" 

I  well  remembered  all;  language,  glance, 
and  tone  seemed  at  the  moment  vividly  renew- 
ed. I  was  now  in  the  school-room ;  Adele 
was  drawing ;  I  bent  over  her  and  directed  her 
pencil.     She  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  start. 

"  Qu'avez-vous,  mademoiselle  1"  said  she; 
"  Vos  doigts  tremblent  comme  la  feuille,  et  vos 
joues  sont  rouges,  mais  rouges  comme  des  ce- 
rises !" 

"I  am  hot,  Adele,  with  stooping!"  She 
went  on  sketching,  I  went  on  thinking. 

I  hastened  to  drive  from  my  mind  the  hateful 
notion  I  had  been  conceiving  respecting  Grace 
Poole — it  disgusted  me.  I  compared  myself 
with  her,  and  found  we  were  different.  Bes- 
sie Leaven  had  said  I  was  quite  a  lady,  and 
she  spoke  truth — I  was  a  lady.  And  now  I 
looked  much  better  than  I  did  when  Bessie  saw 
me — I  had  more  color  and  more  flesh  ;  more 
life,  more  vivacity  ;  because  I  had  brighter 
hopes  and  keener  enjoyments. 

"  Evening  approaches,"  said  I,  as  I  looked 
toward  the  window.  "  I  have  never  heard  Mr. 
Rochester's  voice  or  step  in  the  house  to-day ; 
but  surely  I  shall  see  him  before  night  ;  I  fear- 
ed the  meeting  in  the  morning,  now  I  desire  it, 
because  expectation  has  been  so  long  baffled 
that  it  is  grown  impatient." 

When  dusk  actually  closed,  and  when  Adele 
left  me  to  go  and  play  in  the  nursery  with  So- 
phie, I  did  most  keenly  desire  it.  I  listened  for 
the  bell  to  ring  below  ;  I  listened  for  Leah  com- 
ing up  with  a  message  ;  I  fancied  sometimes  I 
heard  Mr.  Rochesters  own  tread,  and  I  turned 
to  the  door,  expecting  it  to  open  and  admit  him. 
The  door  remained  shut ;  darkness  only  came 
in  through  the  window.  Still  it  was  not  late ; 
he  often  sent  for  me  at  seven  and  eight  o'clock, 
and  it  was  yet  but  six.  Surely  I  should  not  be 
wholly  disappointed  to-night,  when  I  had  so 
many  things  to  say  to  him !  I  wanted  again 
to  introduce  the  subject  of  Grace  Poole,  and  to 
hear  what  he  would  answer;  I  wanted  to  ask 
him  plainly  if  he  really  believed  it  was  she  who 
had  made  last  night's  hideous  attempt  j  and,  if 
so.  why  he  kept  her  wickedness  a  secret.  It 
little  mattered  whether  my  ctinosity  irritated 
him  ;  I  knew  the  pleasure  of  vexing  and  sooth 
ing  him  by  turns  ;  it  was  one  I  chiefly  delighted 
in,  and  a  sure  instinct  always  prevented  me 


//yi-  /n.^r^y^- 


JANE  EYRE. 


61 


from  going  too  far ;  beyond  the  verge  of  provo- 
cation I  never  ventured-^on  the  extreme  brink 
I  liked  well  to  try  my  skill.  Retaining  every 
minute  form  of  respect,  every  propriety  of  my 
station,  I  could  still  meet  him  in  "argument 
vrithout  fear  or  uneasy  restraint :  this  suited 
both  liim  and  me. 

A  tread  creaked  on  the  stairs  at  last ;  liCah 
made  her  appearance,  but  it  was  only  to  inti- 
mate that  tea  was  ready  in  Mrs.  Fairfax's  room. 
Thither  I  repaired,  glad  at  least  to  go  down 
stairs,  for  that  brought  me,  I  imagined,  nearer 
to  Mr.  Rochester's  presence. 

"  You  must  want  your  tea,"  said  the  good 
lady,  as  I  joined  her,  "  you  ate  so  little  at  din- 
ner. I  am  afraid,"  she  continued,  "you  are 
not  well  to-day ;  you  look  flushed  and  feverish." 

"  Oh,  quite  well !     I  never  felt  better." 

"  Then  you  must  prove  it  by  evincing  a  good 
appetite  ;  will  you  fill  the  tea-pot  while  I  knit 
off  this  needle  1"  Having  completed  her  task, 
she  rose  to  draw  down  the  blind,  which  she 
had  hitherto  kept  up,  by  way,  I  suppose,  of 
making  the  most  of  daylight,  though  dusk  was 
now  fast  deepening  into  total  obscurity. 

"  It  is  fair  to-night,"  said  she,  as  she  looked 
through  the  panes,  "  though  not  starlight.  Mr. 
Rochester  has,  on  the  whole,  had  a  favorable 
day  for  his  journey." 

"  Journey !  Is  Mr.  Rochester  gone  any  where  1 
I  did  not  know  he  was  out." 

"  Oh,  he  set  off  the  moment  he  had  break- 
fasted. "  He  is  gone  to  the  Leas,  Mr.  Eshton's 
place,  ten  miles  on  the  other  side  Millcote.  I 
believe  there  is  quite  a  party  assembled  there  ; 
Lord  Ingram,  Sir  George  Lynn,  Colonel  Dent, 
and  others." 

"  Do  you  expect  him  back  tonight  1" 

"  No,  nor  to-morrow  either ;  I  should  think 
he  is  very  likely  to  stay  a  week  or  more  ;  when 
these  fine,  fashionable  people  get  together,  they 
are  so  surrounded  by  elegance  and  gayety,  so 
well  provided  with  all  that  can  please  and  en- 
tertain, they  are  in  no  hurry  to  separate.  Gen- 
tlemen, especially,  are  often  in  request  on  such 
occasions,  and  Mr.  Rochester  is  so  talented 
and  so  lively  in  society,  that  I  believe  he  is  a 
general  favorite ;  the  ladies  are  very  fond  of 
him,  though  you  would  not  think  his  appearance 
calculated  to  recommend  him  particularly  in 
their  eyes  ;  but  I  suppose  his  acquirements  and 
abilities,  perhaps  his  wealth  and  good  blood, 
make  amends  for  any  little  fault  of  look." 

"  Are  there  ladies  at  the  Leas  1" 

"There  are  Mrs.  Eshton  and  her  three 
daughters — very  elegant  young  ladies  indeed  ; 
and  there  are  the  honorable  Blanche  and  Mary 
Ingram ;  most  beautiful  women,  I  suppose.  In- 
deed, I  have  seen  Slanche,  six  or  seven  years 
since,  when  she  was  a  girl  of  eighteen.  She 
came  here  to  a  Christmas  ball  and  party  Mr. 
Rochester  gave.  You  should  have  seen  the 
dining-room  that  day — how  richly  it  was  deco- 
rated, how  brilliantly  lighted  up  !  I  should  think 
there  were  fifty  ladies  and  gentlemen  present — 
all  of  the  first  county-families  ;  and  Miss  In- 
gram was  considered  the  belle  of  the  evening." 

"  You  saw  her,  you  say,  Mrs.  Fairfax  :  what 
was  she  like  1" 

"Yes,  I  saw  her.  The  dining-room  doors 
were  thrown  open ;  and,  as  it  was  Christmas- 
time, the  servants  were  allowed  to  assemble  in 


ttie  hall,  to  hear  some  of  the  ladies  sing  and 
play.  Mr.  Rochester  would  have  me  to  come 
in,  and  I  sat  down  in  a  quiet  corner  and  watch- 
ed them.  I  never  saw  a  more  splendid  scene : 
the  ladies  were  magnificently  dressed  ;  most  of 
them — at  least  most  of  the  younger  ones — look- 
ed handsome  ;  but  Miss  Ingram  was  certainly 
the  queen."  , 

"  And  what  was  she  likeV 

"  Tall,  fine  bust,  sloping  shoulders ;  long, 
graceful  neck ;  olive  complexion,  dark  and  clear ; 
noble  features ;  eyes  rather  like  Mr.  Roches- 
ter's— large  and  black,  and  as  brilliant  as  her 
jewels.  And  then  she  had  such  a  fine  head  of 
hair,  raven-black,  and  so  becomingly  arranged : 
a  crown  of  thick  plaits  behind,  and  in  front  the 
longest,  the  glossiest  curls  I  ever  saw.  She 
was  dressed  in  pure  white  ;  an  amber-colored 
scarf  was  passed  over  her  shoulder  and  across 
her  breast,  tied  at  the  side,  and  descending  in 
long,  fringed  ends  below  her  knee.  She  wore 
an  amber-colored  flower,  too,  in  her  hair;  it 
contrasted  well  with  the  jetty  mass  of  her  curls." 

"  She  was  greatly  admired,  of  course  1" 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  and  not  only  for  her  beauty, 
but  for  her  accomplishments.  She  was  one  of 
the  ladies  who  sang  ;  a  gentleman  accompanied 
her  on  the  piano.  .She  and  Mr.  Rochester  sung 
a  duet." 

"  Mr.  Rochester  !  I  was  hot  aware  he  could 
sing." 

"  Oh  !  he  has  a  fine  bass  voice,  and  an  ex- 
cellent taste  for  music." 

"  And  Miss  Ingram :  what  sort  of  a  voice  had 
she?"    ■ 

"  A  very  rich  and  powerful  one  :  she  sang  de- 
lightfully ;  it  was  a  treat  to  listen  to  her ;  and 
she  played  afterward.  I  am  no  judge  of  music, 
but  Mr.  Rochester  is  ;  and  I  heard  him  say  her 
execution  was  remarkably  good." 

"  And  this  beautiful  and  accomplished  lady  is 
not  yet  married  V 

"  It  appears  not.  I  fancy  neither  she  nor  her 
sister  have  very  large  fortunes.  Old  Lord  In- 
gram's estates  .were  chiefly  entailed,  and  tho 
eldest  son  came  in  for  every  thing  almost." 

"  But  I  wonder  no  wealthy  nobleman  or  gen- 
tleman has  taken  a  fancy  to  her :  Mr.  Roches- 
ter, for  instance.     He  is  rich,  is  he  not  1" 

"  Oh  !  yes.  But,  you  see,  there  is  a  consid- 
erable difference  in  age  :  Mr.  Rochester  is  near 
forty  ;  she  is  but  twenty-five." 

"What  of  that?  More  unequal  matches  are 
made  every  day." 

"  True ;  yet  I  should  scarcely  fancy  Mr. 
Rochester  would  entertain  an  idea  of  the  sort. 
But  you  eat  nothing :  you  have  scarcely  tasted 
since  you  began  tea." 

"  No  ;  I  am  too  thirsty  to  eat.  Will  you  let 
me  have  another  cupl" 

I  was  about  again  to  revert  to  the  probability 
of  a  union  between  Mr.  Rochester  and  the  beau- 
tiful Blanche  :  but  AdMe  came  in,  and  the  con- 
versation was  turned  into  another  channel. 

When  once  more  done,  I  reviewed  the  in 
formation  I  had  got  ;i  looked  into  my  heart,  ex 
amined  its  thoughts  a  id  feelings,  and  endeavor 
ed  to  bring  back  with  a  strict  hand  such  as  had 
been  straying  through  imagination's  boundless 
and  trackless  waste,  nto  the  safe  fold  of  com 
mon  sense. 

Arraigned  at  my  i-w^ri  bar,  Memory  haviog 


6fl 


JANE  EYRE. 


given  her  evidence  of  the  hopes,  wishes,  senti- 
ments I  had  been  cherishing  since  last  night — 
of  the  general  state  of  mind  in  which  I  had  in- 
dulged for  nearly  a  fortnight  past ;  Reason  hav- 
ing come  forward  and  told,  in  her  own  quiet 
way,  a  plain,  unvarnished  tale,  sliowing  how  I 
had  rejected  the  real  and  rabidly  devoured  the 
ideal ;  I  pronounced  judgment  to  this  effect : 

That  a  greater  fool  than  Jane  Eyre  had  never 
breathed  the  breath  of  life  :  that  a  more  fantas- 
tic idiot  had  never  surfeited  herself  on  sweet 
lies,  and  swallowed  poison  as  if  it  were  nectar. 

"  Fou,"  I  said,  "  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Roches- 
ter 1  You  gifted  with  the  power  of  pleasing 
him?  You  of  importance  to  him  in  any  wayl 
Go  !  your  folly  sickens  me.  And  you  have  de- 
rived pleasure  from  occasional  tokens  of  pref- 
erence— equivocal  tokens  shown  by  a  gentle- 
man of  family,  and  a  man  of  the  world,  to  a 
dependent  and  a  novice.  How  dared  you  1 
Poor  stupid  dupe  !  Could  not  even  self-inter- 
est make  you  wiser  1  You  repeated  to  your- 
self this  morning  the  brief  scene  of  last  night  1 
Cover  your  face  and  be  ashamed !  He  said 
something  in  praise  of  your  eyes,  did  he  1  Blind 
puppy  !  Open  their  bleared  lids  and  look  on 
your  own  accursed  senselessness  !  It  does 
good  to  no  woman  to  be  flattered  by  her  supe- 
rior, who  can  not  possibly  intend  to  marry  her ; 
and  it  is  madness  iri  all  women  to  let  a  secret 
love  kindle  within  them,  which,  if  unreturned 
and  unknown,  must  devour  the  life  that  feeds  it ; 
and,  if  discovered  and  responded  to,  must  lead, 
igms  faluus-Yike,  into  miry  wilds  whence  there 
is  no  extrication. 

"  Listen,  then,  Jane  Eyre,  to  your  sentence  : 
to-morrow,  place  the  glass  before  you,  and  draw 
m  chalk  your  own  picture,  faithfully ;  without 
softening  one  defect :  omit  no  harsh  line,  smooth 
away  no  displeasing  irregularity;  write  under 
it,  '  Portrait  of  a  governess,  disconnected,  poor, 
and  plain.' 

"  Afterward,  take  a  piece  of  smooth  ivory — 
you  have  one  prepared  in  your  drawing-box: 
take  your  pallet,  mix  your  freshest,  finest, 
clearest  tints  ;  choose  your  most  delicate  cam- 
el-hair pencils  ;  delineate  carefully  the  loveliest 
face  you  can  imagine  ;  paint  it  in  your  softest 
shades  and  sweetest  hues,  according  to  the  de- 
scription given  by  Mrs.  Fairfax  of  Blanche  In- 
gram :  remember  the  raven  ringlets,  the  orien- 
tal eye ;  what !  you  revert  to  Mr.  Rochester's 
as  a  model !  Order !  No,  snivel !  no  senti- 
ment I  no  regret !  I  will  endure  only  sense 
and  resolution.  Recall  the  august  yet  harmo- 
nious lineaments,  the  Grecian  neck  and  bust : 
let  the  round  and  dazzling  arm  be  visible,  and 
the  delicate  hand ;  omit  neither  diamond  ring 
nor  gold  bracelet ;  portray  faithfully  the  attire, 
aerial  lace  and  glistening  satin,  graceful  scarf 
and  golden  rose — call  it  'Blanche,  an  accom- 
plished lady  of  rank.' 

"  Whenever,  in  future,  you  should  chance  to 
fancy  Mr.  Rochester  thinks  well  of  you,  take 
out  these  two  pictures  and  compare  them  ;  say, 
'  Mr.  Rochester  might  probably  win  that  noble 
lady's  love,  if  he  chose  ta  strive  for  it ;  is  it 
likely  he  would  waste  a  serious  thought  on  this 
indigent  and  insignificant  plebeian  1  ' 

"  I'll  do  it,"  I  resolved  ;  and  having  framed 
this  determination,  I  grew  .jalm,  and  fell  asleep. 

I  kept  my  word.    An  ho  ur  or  two  sufficed  to 


sketch  my  own  portrait  in  crayons ;  and  in  less 
than  a  fortnight  I  had  oompleted  an  ivory  min- 
iature of  an  imaginary  Blanche  Ingram.  It 
looked  a  lovely  face  enough,  and  when  com- 
pared with  the  real  head  in  chalk,  the  contrast 
was  as  great  as  self-control  could  desire.  I 
derive<l  benefit  from  the  task :  it  had  kept  my 
head  and  hands  employed,  and  had  given  force 
and  fixedness  to  the  new  impressions  I  wished 
to  stamp  indelibly  on  my  heart. 

Ere  long  I  had  reason  to  congratulate  myself 
on  the  course  of  wholesome  discipline  to  which 
I  had  thus  forced  my  feelings  to  submit :  thanks  . 
to  it,  I  v/as  able  to  meet  subsequent  occurrences 
with  a  decent  calm  :  which,  had  they  found  me 
unprepared,  I  should,  probably,  have  been  un- 
equal to  maintain  even  externally. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  WEEK  passed,  and  no  news  arrived  of  Mr. 
Rochester  :  ten  days,  and  still  he  did  not  come. 
Mrs.  Fairfax  said  she  should  not  be  surprised 
if  he  were  to  go  straight  from  the  Leas  to  Lon- 
don, and  thence  to  the  continent,  and  not  show 
his  face  again  at  Thornfield  for  a  year  to  come  : 
he  had  not  unfrequently  quitted  it  in  a  manner 
quite  as  abrupt  and  unexpected.  When  I  heard 
this  I  was  beginning  to  feel  a  strange  chill  and 
failing  at  the  heart.  I  was  actually  permitting 
myself  to  experience  a  sickening  sense  of  dis- 
appointment :  but  rallying  my  wits,  and  recol- 
lecting my  principles,  1  at  once  called  my 
sensations  to  order ;  and  it  was  wonderful  how 
I  got  over  the  temporary  blunder — how  I  cleared 
up  the  mistake  of  supposing  Mr.  Rochester's 
movements  a  matter  in  which  I  had  any  cause 
to  take  a  vital  interest.  Not  that  I  humbled 
myself  by  a  slavish  notion  of  inferiority  :  on  the 
contrary,  I  just  said, 

"  You  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  master  of 
Thornfield,  further  than  to  receive  the  salary- 
he  gives  you  for  teaching  his  protegee,  and  to 
be  grateful  for  such  respectful  and  kind  treat- 
ment as,  if  you  do  your  duty,  you  have  a  right 
to  expect  at  his  hands.  Be  sure  that  is  the 
only  tie  he  seriously  acknowledges  between  you 
and  him  :  so  don't  make  him  the  object  of  your 
fine  feelings,  your  raptures,  agonies,  and  so 
forth.  He  is  not  of  your  order  :  keep  to  your 
caste  ;  and  be  too  self-respecting  to  lavish  the 
love  of  the  whole  heart,  soul,  and  strength, 
where  such  a  gift  is  not  wanted  and  would  be 
despised." 

I  went  on  with  my  day's  business  tranquilly; 
but,  ever  and  anon,  vague  suggestion  kept  wan- 
dering across  my  brain  of  reasons  why  I  should 
quit  Thornfield  ;  and  I  kept  involuntarily  fram- 
mg  advertisements  and  pondering  conjectures 
about  new  situations  :  these  thoughts  I  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  check  ;  they  might  germi- 
nate and  bear  fruit  if  they  could. 

Mr.  Rochester  had  been  absent  upward  of  a 
fortnight,  when  the  post  brought  Mrs.  Fairfax  a 
letter. 

"  It  is  from  the  master,"  said  she,  as  she 
looked  at  the  direction.  "Now  I  suppose  we 
shall  know  whether  we  are  to  expect  his  return 
or  not." 

And  while  she  broke  the  seal  and  perused  the 
document,  I  went  on  taking  my  coffee  (we  were 


JANE  EYRE. 


63 


at  breakfast),  it  was  hot,  and  I  attributed  to  that 
circumstance  a  fiery  glow  which  suddenly  rose 
to  my  face.  Why  my  hand  shook,  and  why  I 
involuntarily  spilled  half  the  contents  of  my  cup 
into  my  saucer,  I  did  not  choose  to  consider. 

"  Well — I  sometimes  think  we  are  too  quiet ; 
but  we  run  a  chance  of  being  busy  enough  now, 
for  a  little  while  at  least,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfax, 
still  holding  the  note  before  her  spectacles. 

Ere  I  permitted  myself  to  request  an  expla- 
nation, I  tied  the  string  of  Adele's  pinafore, 
which  happened  to  be  loose  :  having  helped  her 
also  to  another  bun  and  refilled  her  mug  with 
milk,  I  said,  nonchalantly, 

"  Mr.  Rochester  is  not  likely  to  return  soon, 
I  suppose  1" 

"  Indeed  he  is — in  three  days,  he  says  ;  that 
will  be  next  Thursday  ;  and  not  alone  either. 
I  don't  know  how  many  of  the  fine  people  at 
the  Leas  are  coming  with  him  ;  he  sends  direc- 
tions for  all  the  best  bedrooms  to  be  prepared  ; 
and  the  library  and  drawing-rooms  are  to  be 
cleaned  out ;  and  I  am  to  get  more  kitchen 
hands  from  the  George  Inn,  at  Millcote,  and 
from  wherever  else  I  can  ;  and  the  ladies  will 
bring  their  maids  and  the  gentlemen  their 
valets ;  so  we  shall  have  a  full  house  of  it." 
And  Mrs.  Fairfax  swallowed  her  breakfast  and 
hastened  away  to  commence  operations. 

The  three  days  were,  as  she  had  foretold, 
busy  enough.  I  had  thought  all  the  rooms  at 
Thornfield  beautifully  clean  and  well-arranged  ; 
but  it  appears  I  was  mistaken.  Three  women 
were  got  to  help  ;  and  such  scrubbing,  such 
brushing,  such  washing  of  paint  and  beating 
of  carpets,  such  taking  down  and  putting  up 
of  pictures,  such  polishing  of  mirrors  and  lus- 
ters, such  lighting  of  fires  in  bedrooms,  and 
airing  of  sheets  and  feather-beds  on  hearths,  I 
never  beheld,  either  before  or  since.  Adele 
ran  quite  wild  in  the  midst  of  it :  the  prepara- 
tions for  company  and  the  prospect  of  their  ar- 
rival, seemed  to  throw  her  into  ecstasies.  She 
would  have  Sophie  to  look  over  all  her  "  toi- 
lettes" as  she  called  frocks  ;  to  furbish  up  any 
that  were  "passees,"  and  to  air  and  arrange 
the  new.  For  herself,  she  did  nothing  but  caper 
about  m  the  front  chambers,  jumping  on  and  off 
the  bedsteads,  and  lie  on  the  matresses  and 
piled-up  bolsters  and  pillows  before  the  enor- 
mous fires  roaring  in  the  chimneys.  From  school 
duties  she  was  exonerated — Mrs.  Fairfax  had 
pressed  me  into  her  service,  and  I  was  all  day 
in  the  store-room,  helping  (or  hindering)  her 
and  the  cook ;  learning  to  make  custards  and 
cheesecakes,  and  French  pastry,  to  truss  gaaie 
and  garnish  dessert-dishes. 

The  party  were  expected  to  arrive  on  Thurs- 
d£^  afternoon,  in  time  for  dinner  at  six.  During 
the  intervening  period  I  had  no  time  to  nurse 
chimera ;  and,  I  believe,  I  was  as  active  and 
gay  as  any  body— Adele  e.xcepted.  Still,  now 
and  then,  I  received  a  damping  check  to  my 
cheerfulness  ;  and  was,  in  spite  of  myself, 
thrown  back  on  the  region  of  doubts  and  por- 
tents, and  dark  conjectures.  This  was  when 
I  chanced  to  see  the  third  story  stair-case  door 
(which  of  late  had  always  been  kept  locked) 
open  slowly,  and  give  passage  to  the  form  of 
Grace  Poole,  m  prim  cap,  white  apron,  and 
handkerchief — when  I  watched  her  glide  along 
the  gallery,  her  quiet  tread  muffled  in  a  list  | 


slipper ;  when  I  saw  her  look  into  the  bustling, 
topsy-turvy  bedrooms — ^just  say  a  word,  per- 
haps, to  the  charwomen  about  the  proper  way 
to  polish  a  grate,  or  clean  a  marble  mantle-piece, 
or  take  stains  from  papered  walls,  and  then  pass 
on.  She  would  thus  descend  to  the  kitchen 
once  a-day,  eat  her  dinner,  smoke  a  moderate 
pipe  on  the  hearth,  and  go  back,  carrying  her 
pot  of  porter  with  her,  for  her  private  solace, 
m  her  own  gloomy  upper  haunt.  Only  one 
hour  in  the  twenty-four  did  she  pass  with  her 
fellow-servants  below  ;  all  the  rest  of  her  time 
was  spent  in  some  low-ceiled,  oaken  chamber 
of  the  second  story ;  there  she  sat  and  sewed 
— and  probably  laughed  drearily  to  herself — as 
companionless  as  a  prisoner  in  his  dungeon. 

The  strangest  thing  of  all  was,  that  not  a 
soul  in  the  house,  except  me,  noticed  her  hab- 
its, or  seemed  to  marvel  at  them  ;  no  one  dis- 
cussed her  position  or  employment,  no  one 
pitied  her  solitude  or  isolation.  I  once,  indeed, 
overheard  a  part  of  a  dialogue  between  Leah 
and  one  of  the  charwomen,  of  which  Grace 
formed  the  subject.  Leah  had  been  saying 
something  I  had  not  caught,  and  the  charwom- 
an remarked : 

"  She  gets  good  wages,  I  guess  1" 

"  Yes,"  said  Leah  ;  "  I  wish  I  had  as  good  : 
not  that  mine  are  to  complain  of — there's  no 
stinginess  at  Thornfield — but  they're  not  one- 
fifth  of  the  sum  Mrs.  Poole  receives.  And  she 
is  laying  by :  she  goes  every  quarter  to  the 
bank  at  Millcote.  I  should  not  wonder  but  she 
has  saved  enough  to  keep  her  independent  if 
she  liked  to  leave,  but  I  suppose  she's  got  used 
to  the  place,  and  then  she's  not  forty  yet,  and 
strong  and  able  for  any  thing.  It  is  too  soon 
for  her  to  give  up  business." 

"  She's  a  good  hand,  I  dare  say,"  said  the 
charwoman. 

"  Ah  !  she  understands  what  she  has  to  do  ; 
nobody  better,"  rejoined  Leah,  significantly ; 
"  and  it  is  not  every  one  could  fill  her  shoes, 
not  for  all  the  money  she  gets." 

"That  it  is  not !"  was  the  reply.  "I  won- 
der whether  master — " 

The  charwoman  was  going  on,  but  here 
Leah  turned  and  perceived  me,  and  she  in- 
stantly gave  her  companion  a  nudge. 

"Doesn't  she  know?"  I  heard  the  woman 
whisper. 

Leah  shook  her  head,  and  the  conversation 
was,  of  course,  dropped.  All  I  had  gathered 
from  it  amounted  to  this,  that  there  was  a  mys- 
tery at  Thornfield,  and  that  from  participation 
in  that  mystery  I  was  purposely  excluded. 

Thursday  came  :  all  work  had  been  complet- 
ed the  previous  evening,  carpets  were  laid 
down,  bed-hangings  festooned,  radiant  white 
counterpanes  spread,  toilet-tables  arranged,  fur- 
niture rubbed,  flowers  piled  in  vases ;  both 
chambers  and  saloons  looked  as  fresh  and 
bright  as  hands  could  make  them.  The  hall, 
too,  was  scoured,  and  the  great  carved  clock, 
as  well  as  the  steps  and  banisters  of  the 
stair-case,  were  polished  to  the  brightness  of 
glass  ;  in  the  dining-room,  the  sideboard  flash- 
ed resplendent  with  plate;  in  the  drawing' 
room  and  boudoir,  vases  of  exotics  bloomed  on 
all  sides. 

Afternoon  arrived :  Mrs.  Fairfax  assumed 
her  best  black  satin  gown,  her  gloves,  and  her 


64 


JANE  EYRE. 


gold  watch ;  for  it  was  her  part  to  receive  the 
company — to  conduct  the  ladies  to  their  rooms, 
&c.  Adcle,  too,  would  be  dressed,  though  I 
thought  she  had  little  chance  of  being  intro- 
duced to  the  party,  that  day  at  least.  How- 
ever, to  please  her,  I  allowed  Sophie  to  apparel 
her  in  one  of  her  short,  full  muslin  frocks.  For 
myself,  I  had  no  need  to  make  any  change  ;  I 
should  not  be  called  upon  to  quit  my  sanctum 
of  the  school-room,  for  a  sanctum  it  was  now 
become  to  me,  "  a  very  pleasant  refuge  in  time 
of  trouble." 

It  had  been  a  mild,  serene,  spring  day  :  one 
of  those  days  which  toward  the  end  of  March 
or  the  beginning  of  April,  rise  shining  over  the 
earth  as  heralds  of  summer.  It  was  drawing 
to  an  end  now,  but  the  evening  was  even  warm, 
and  I  sat  at  work  in  the  school-room  with  the 
window  open. 

"It  gets  late,''  said  Mrs.  Fairfax,  entering  in 
rustling  state.  "  I  am  glad  I  ordered  dinner  an 
hour  after  the  time  Mr.  Rochester  mentioned, 
for  it  is  past  six  now.  I  have  sent  John  down 
to  the  gates  to  see  if  there  is  any  thing  on  the 
road :  one  can  see  a  long  way  from  thence  in 
the  direction  of  Millcote."  She  went  to  the 
window.  "Here  he  is  !"  said  she.  "Well, 
John  (leaning  out),  any  news  1" 

"  They're  coming,  ma'am,"  was  the  ansvi'er. 
"They'll  be  here  in  ten  minutes." 

Adele  flew  to  the  window.  I  followed,  tak- 
ing care  to  stand  on  one  side,  so  that,  screened 
by  the  curtain,  I  could  see  without  being  seen. 

The  ten  minutes  John  had  given  seemed 
very  long,  but  at  last  wheels  were  heard  ;  four 
equestrians  galloped  up  the  drive,  and  after 
them  came  two  open  carriages.  Fluttering 
veils  and  waving  plumes  filled  the  vehicles ; 
two  of  the  cavaliers  were  young,  dashing-look- 
ing gentlemen ;  the  third  was  Mr.  Rochester, 
on  his  black  horse,  Mesrour,  Pilot  bounding 
before  him  ;  at  his  side  rode  a  lady,  and  he  and 
she  were  the  first  of  the  party.  Her  purple  rid- 
ing-habit almost  swept  the  ground,  her  veil 
streamed  long  on  the  breeze,  mingling  with  its 
transparent  folds,  and  gleaming  through  them 
iilione  rich  raven  ringlets. 

"Miss  Ingram!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fairfax, 
and  away  she  hurried  to  her  post  below. 

The  cavalcade,  following  the  sweep  of  the 
drive,  quickly  turned  the  angle  of  the  house, 
and  I  lost  sight  of  it.  Adi'le  now  petitioned  to 
go  down,  but  I  took  her  on  my  knee  and  gave 
her  to  understand  that  she  must  not  on  any 
account  think  of  venturing  in  sight  of  the 
ladies,  either  now  or  at  any  other  time,  .unless 
expressly  sent  for,  that  Mr.  Rochester  would 
be  very  angry,  &c.  "  Some  natural  tears  she 
shed"  on  being  told  this  ;  but  as  I  began  to  look 
very  grave,  she  consented  at  last  to  wipe 
ihem. 

A  joyous  stir  was  now  audible  in  the  hall ; 
gentlemen's  deep  tones,  and  ladies  silvery  ac- 
cents blent  harmoniously  together,  and  distin- 
guishable above  all,  though  not  loud,  was  the 
sonorous  voice  of  the  master  of  Thornfield 
Hall,  welcoming  his  fair  and  gallant  guests  un- 
der his  roof  Then  light  steps  ascended  the 
stairs,  and  there  was  a  tripping  through  the 
gallery,  and  soft,  cheerful  laughs,  and  opening 
and  closing  doors,  and,  for  a  lime,  a  hush. 
"Elles  changcnt  de  toilettes,"  said  Ad^le, 


who,  listening  attentively,  had  followed  ^ery 
movement ;  and  she  sighed. 

"  Chez  maman,"  said  she,  "quand  il  y  avait 
du  monde,  je  les  suivais  partout,  au  salon  et 
a  leurs  chambres ;  souvent  je  regardais  les 
femmes  de  chambrecoiffer  et  habiller  les  dames, 
et  c'6tait  si  amusant :  comme  cela  on  apprend." 

"Don't  you  feel  hungry,  Ad^le?" 

"  Mais  oui,  mademoiselle  :  voila  cinq  ou  six 
heures  que  nous  n'avons  pas  mange." 

"Well  now,  while  the  ladies  are  in  their 
rooms,  I  will  venture  down  and  get  you  some- 
thing to  eat." 

And  issuing  from  my  asylum  with  precaution, 
I  sought  a  back  stairs  which  conducted  directly 
to  the  kitchen.  All  in  that  region  was  fire  and 
commotion ;  the  soup  and  fish  were  in  the  last 
stage  of  projection,  and  the  cook  hung  over 
crucibles  in  a  frame  of  mind  and  body  threaten- 
ing spontaneous  combustion.  In  the  servants' 
hall  two  coachmen  and  three  gentlemen's  gen- 
tlemen stood  or  sat  round  the  fire ;  the  Abigails 
I  suppose  were  up  stairs  with  their  mistresses, 
the  new  servants  that  had  been  hired  from 
Millcote  were  bustling  about  every  where. 
Threading  this  chaos,  I  at  last  reached  the  lar- 
der ;  there  I  took  possession  of  a  cold  chicken, 
a  roll  of  bread,  some  tarts,  a  plate  or  two,  and 
a  knife  and  fork  ;  with  this  booty  I  made  a 
hasty  retreat.  I  had  regained  the  gallery,  and 
was  just  shutting  the  back  door  behind  me, 
when  an  accelerated  hum  warned  me  that  the 
ladies  were  about  to  issue  from  their  chambers. 
I  could  not  proceed  to  the  school-room  without 
passing  some  of  their  doors,  and  running  the 
risk  of  being  surprised  with  my  cargo  of  victu- 
alage,  so  I  stood  still  at  this  end,  which,  being 
windowless,  was  dark,  quite  dark  now,  for  the 
sun  was  set  and  twilight  gathering. 

Presently  the  chambers  gave  up  their  fair 
tenants  one  after  another :  each  came  out  gayly 
and  airily,  with  dress  that  gleamed  lustrous 
through  the  dusk.  For  a  moment  they  stood 
grouped  together  at  the  other  extremity  of  the 
gallery,  conversing  in  a  key  of  sweet  subdued 
vivacity :  they  then  descended  the  stair-case, 
almost  as  noiselessly  as  a  bright  mist  rolls 
down  a  hill.  Their  collective  appearance  had 
left  on  me  an  impression  of  high-born  elegance, 
such  as  I  had  never  before  received. 

I  found  Ad^le  peeping  through  the  school- 
room door,  which  she  held  ajar.  "  What  beau- 
tiful ladies !"  cried  she,  in  English.  "  Oh,  I 
wish  I  might  go  to  them !  Do  you  think  Mr. 
Rochester  will  send  for  us  by  and  by,  after 
dinner  1" 

"  No,  indeed,  I  don't ;  Mr.  Rochester  has 
something  else  to  think  about.  Never  mind 
the  ladies  to-night ;  perhaps,  you  will  see  them 
to-morrow :  here  is  your  dinner." 

She  was  really  hungry,  so  the  chicken  and 
tarts  served  to  divert  her  attention  for  a  time. 
It  was  well  I  secured  this  forage  ;  or  both  ohe, 
I,  and  Sophie,  to  whom  I  conveyed  a  share  of 
our  repast,  would  have  run  a  chance  of  getting 
no  dinner  at  all :  every  one  down  stairs  was 
too  much  engaged  to  think  of  us.  The  dessert 
was  not  carried  out  till  after  nine,  and  at  ten, 
footmen  were  still  running  to  and  fro  with 
trays  and  cofllce-cups.  I  allowed  .Adi^le  to  sit 
up  much  later  than  usual ;  for  she  declared  she 
could  not  possibly  go  to  sleep  while  the  doors 


JANE  EYRE. 


65 


kept  opening  and  shutting  below,  and  people 
bustling  about.  Besides,  she  added,  a  message 
might  possibly  come  from  Mr.  Rochester  when 
she  was  undressed  ;  "  et  alors  quel  dommiage  !" 
I  told  her  stories  as  long  as  she  would  listen 
to  them  ;  and  then,  for  a  change,  I  took  her  out 
into  the  gallery.  The  hail  lamp  was  now  lighted, 
and  it  amused  her  to  look  over  the  balustrade 
and  watch  the  servants  passing  backward  and 
forward.  When  the  evening  was  far  advanced, 
a  sound  of  music  issued  from  the  drawing- 
room,  whither  the  piano  had  been  removed  ; 
Adtile  and  I  sat  down  on  the  top  step  of  the 
stairs  to  listen.  Presently  a  voice  blent  with 
the  rich  tones  of  the  instrument :  it  was  a  lady 
wiio  sang,  and  very  sweet  her  notes  were. 
The  solo  over,  a  duet  followed,  and  then  a 
glee  :  a  joyous  conversational  murmur  filled  up 
the  intervals.  I  listened  long :  suddenly  I  dis- 
covered that  my  ear  was  wholly  intent  on  ana- 
lyzing the  mingled  sounds,  and  trying  to  dis- 
criminate amid  the  confusion  of  accents  those 
of  Mr.  Rochester ;  and  when  it  caught  them, 
which  it  soon  did,  it  foUnd  a  further  task  in 
framing  the  tones,  rendered  by  distance  inar- 
ticulate, into  words. 

The  clock  struck  eleven.  I  looked  at  Adele, 
whose  head  leaned  agamst  my  shoulder ;  her 
eyes  were  waxing  heavy,  so  I  took  her  up  in 
my  arms  and  carried  her  off  to  bed.  It  was 
near  one  before  the  gentlemen  and  ladies  sought 
their  chambers.' 

The  next  day  was  as  fine  as  its  predecessor  ; 
it  was  devoted  by  the  party  to  an  excursion  to 
some  site  in  the  neighborhood.  Tlicy  set  out 
early  in  the  forenoon,  some  on  horseback,  the 
rest  in  carriages ;  I  witnessed  both  the  depart- 
ure and  the  return.  Miss  Ingram,  as  before, 
was  the  only  lady  equestrian  ;  and,  as  before, 
Mr.  Rochester  galloped  at  her  side  :  the  two 
rode  a  little  apart  from  the  rest.  I  pointed  out 
this  circumstance  to  Mrs.  Fairfax,  who  was 
standing  at  the  window  with  m,e. 

"You  said  it  was  not  likely  tliey  should 
think  of  being  married,"  said  I ;"  but  you  see 
Mr.  Rochester  evidently  prefers  her  to  any  of 
the  other  ladies." 

"  Yes  ;  I  dare  say.:  no  doubt  he  admires  her." 
"  And  she   him,"  I  added ;  "  look   how  she 
leans  her  head  toward  him  as  if  she  were  con- 
versing confidentially  !     I  wish  I  could  see  her 
face  ;  I  have  never  had  a  glimpse  of  it  yet." 

"  You  will  see  her  this  evening  ;"  answered 
Mrs.  Fairfax.  "  I  happened  to  remark  to  Mr. 
Rochester  how  much  Ad^le  wished  to  be  intro- 
duced to  the  ladies,  and  he  said  :  '  Oh  let  her 
come  into  the  drawing-room  aficr  dinner;  and 
request  Miss  Eyre  to  accompany  her.'  " 

"  Yes — he  said  that  from  mere  politeness ;  I 
need  not  go,  I  am  snre,"  I  answered. 

"  Well — I  observed  to  him  that  as  you  were 
unused  to  company,.!  did  not  think  you  would 
like  appearing  before  so  gay  a  party — all  stran- 
gers ;  and  he  replied,  in  his  quick  way,  '  Non- 
sense !  If  she  objects,  tell  her  it  is  my  partic- 
ular wish ;  and  if  she  resists,  say  I  shall  come 
and  fetch  her  in  case  of  contumacy.'  " 

"  I  will  not  give  him  that  trouble,"  I  an- 
swered. "  I  will  go,  if  no  better  may  be  ;  but 
I  don't  like  it.  Shall  you  be  there,  Mrs.  Fair- 
fax!" 

"  No ;   I  pleaded  ofl^,  and  he  admitted  my 
•  E 


plea.  I'll  tell  you  hou  lo  luanage  oo  oj  iv 
avoid  the  embarrassment  of  Tnaking  a  formal 
entrance,  which  is  the  most  disagreeable  part 
of  the  business.  You  must  go  into  the  draw- 
ing-room while  it  is  empty,  before  the  ladies 
leave  the  dining-table ;  choose  your  seat  in 
any  quiet  nook  you  like  ;  you  need  not  stay 
long  after  the  gentlemen  come  in,  unless  you 
please  ;  just  let  Mr.  Rochester  see  you  are 
there  and  then  slip  away — nobody  will  notice 
you." 

"  Will  these  people  remain  long,  do  you 
think  r' 

"  Perhaps  two  or  three  weeks ;  certainly  not 
more.  After  the  Easter  recess,  Sir  George 
Lynn,  who  was  lately  elected  member  for 
Millcote,  will  have  to  go  up  to  town  and  take 
his  seat ;  I  dare  say  Mr.  Rochester  will  accom- 
pany him  ;  it  surprises  me  that  he  has  already 
made  so  protracted  a  stay  at  Thornfield." 

It  was  with  some  trepidation  that  I  perceived 
the  hour  approach  when  I  was  lo  repair  with 
my  charge  to  the  drawing-room.  Adele'  had 
been  in  a  state  of  ecstasy  all  day,  after  hearing 
she  was  to  be  presented  to  the  ladies  in  the 
evening  ;  and  it  was  not  till  Sophie  commenced 
the  operation  of  dressing  her,  that  she  sobered 
down.  Then  the  importance  of  the  process 
quickly  steadied  her  ;  and  by  the  time  she  had 
her  curls  arranged  in  well-smoothed,  drooping 
clusters,  her  pink  satin  frock  put  on,  her  long 
sash  tied,  and  her  lace  mittens  adjusted,  she 
looked  as  grave  as  any  judge.  No  need  to 
warn  her  not  to  disarrange  her  attire  ;  when 
she  was  dressed,  she  sat  demurely  down  in 
her  little  chair,  taking  care  previously  to  lift  up 
the  satin  skirt  for  fear  she  should  crease  it, 
and  assured  me  she  would  not  stir  thence  till  I 
was  ready.  This  I  quickly  was ;  my  best 
dress  (the  silver-gray  one,  purchased  for  Miss 
Temple's  wedding  and  never  worn  since)  was 
soon  put  on  ;  my  hair  was  soon  smoothed  ;  my 
sole  ornament,  the  pearl  brooch,  soon  assumed. 
We  descended. 

Fortunately  there  was  another  entrance  to 
the  drawing-room  than  that  through  the  saloon 
where  they  were  all  seated  at  dinner.  We 
found  the  apartment  vacant ;  a  large  fire  burn- 
ing silently  on  the  marble  hearth,  and  wax  can- 
dles shining  in  bright  solitude,  amid  the  ex- 
quisite flowers  with  which  the  tables  were 
adorned.  The  crimson  curtain  hung  before 
the  arch  ;  slight  as  was  the  separation  this 
drapery  formed  from  the  parly  in  the  adjoining 
saloon,  they  spoke  in  so  low  a  key  that  noth 
ing  of  their  conversation  could  be  distinguished 
beyond  a  soothing  murmur. 

Adele,  who  appeared  to  be  still  under  the  in- 
fluence of  a  most  solemnizing  impression,  sat 
down  without  a  word  oa  the  foolstool  I  pointed 
out  to  her.  I  retired  to  a  window-seat,  and 
taking  a  book  from  a  table  near,  endeavored  lo 
read.  Adele  brought  her  stool  to  my  feet ;  ere 
long  she  touched  my  knee. 

"  What  is  it,  Ad^ler' 

"  Est-ce  que  je  ne  puis  pas  prendre  une 
seule  de  ces  fleurs  magnifiques,  mademoiselle  T 
Seulement  pour  completer  ma  toilette." 

"  You  think  too  much  of  your  '  toilette,' 
Ad^le ;  but  you  may  have  a  flower."  And  I 
took  a  rose  from  a  vase  and  fastened  it  in  her 
sash.    She  sighed  a  sigh  of  ineffable  satisfac 


t 


60 


JANE  EYRE. 


tion,  as  if  her  cup  of  happiness  were  now  full. 
I  turned  my  face  away  to  conceal  a  smile  I 
could  not  suppress  ;  there  was  someihing  lu- 
dicrous as  well  as  painful  in  the  little  Pari- 
sienne's  earnest  and  innate  devotion  to  matters 
of  dress. 

A  soft  sound  of  rising  now  became  audible  ; 
the  curtain  was  swept  back  from  the  arch  ; 
through  it  appeared  the  dining-room,  with  its 
lighted  luster  pouring  down  light  on  the  silver 
and  glass  of  a  magnificent  dessert-service  cover- 
ing a  long  table  ;  a  band  of  ladies  stood  in  the 
opening  ;  they  entered,  and  the  curtain  fell  be- 
hind them. 

There  were  but  eight ;  yet,  somehow,  as  they 
flocked  in,  they  gave  the  impression  of  a  much 
larger  number.  Some  of  them  were  very  tall ; 
many  were  dressed  in  white;  and  all  had  a 
sweeping  amplitude  of  array  that  seemed  to 
magnify  their  persons  as  a  mist  magnifies  the 
moon.  I  rose  and  courtesied  to  them  ;  one  or 
two  bent  their  heads  in  return  ;  the  others  only 
stared  at  me. 

They  dispersed  about  the  room  ;  reminding 
me,  by  the  lightness  and  buoyancy  of  their 
movements,  of  a  flock  of  white  plumy  birds. 
Some  of  them  threw  themselves  in  half-reclin- 
ing positions  on  the  sofas  and  ottomans  ;  some 
bent  over  the  tables  and  e.xamined  the  flowers 
and  books  ;  the  rest  gathered  in  a  group  round 
the  fire — all  talked  in. a  low  but  clear  tone 
which  seemed  habitual  to  them.  I  knew  their 
names  afterward,  and  may  as  well  mention 
them  now. 

First,  there  was  Mrs.  Eshton  and  two  of  her 
daughters.  She  had  evidently  been  a  hand- 
some woman,  and  was  well  preserved  still. 
Of  her  daughters,  the  eldest,  Amy,  was  rather 
little  ;  naive,  and  childlike  in  fece  and  manner, 
and  piquant  in  form  ;  her  white  muslin  dress 
and  blue  sash  became  her  well.  The  second, 
Louisa,  was  taller  and  more  elegant  in  figure  ; 
with  a  very  pretty  face,  of  that  order  the  French 
term  "  minois  chitfone  ;"  both  sisters  were  fair 
as  lilies. 

Lady  Lynn  was  a  large  and  stout  personage 
of  about  forty ;  very  erect,  very  haughty-looking, 
rrichly  dressed  in  a  satin  robe  of  changeful 
sheen  ;  her  dark  hair  shone  glossily  under  the 
shade  of  an  azure  plume,  and  within  the  circlet 
of  a  band  of  gems. 

Mrs.  Colonel  Dent  was  less  showy  ;  but,  I 
thought,  more  ladylike.  She  had  a  slight  fig- 
ure, a  pale,  gentle  face,  and  fair  hair.  Her 
black  satin  dress,  her  scarf  of  rich  foreign  lace, 
and  her  pearl  ornaments,  pleased  me  better 
than  the  rainbow  radiance  of  the  titled  dame. 

But  the  three  most  distinguished — partly, 
'  perhaps,  because  the  tallest  figures  of  the  band 
— were  the  Dowager  Lady  Ingram  and  her 
daughters,  Blanche  and  Mary.  They  were  all 
three  of  the  loftiest  stature  of  woman.  The 
dowager  might  be  between  forty  and  fifty  ;  her 
sliape  was  still  fine  ;  her  hair  (by  candle  light  at 
least)  still  black ;  her  teeth,  too,  were  still 
apparency  perfect.  Most  people  would  have 
termed  lier  a  splendid  woman  of  her  age ;  and 
so  she  was,  no  doubt,  physically  speaking;  but 
then  there  was  an  expression  of  almost  insup- 
portable hauglitinrss  in  her  bearing  and  counte- 
nance. .She  had  Roman  features  and  a  double 
chin,  disappearing  into  a  throat  like  a  pilla^; 


these  features  appeared  to  me  not  only  inflated 
and  darkened,  but  even  furrowed  with  pride  ; 
and  the^chin  was  sustained  by  the  same  prin- 
ciple, in  a  position  of  almost  preternatural  erect- 
ness.  She  had,  likewise,  a  fierce  and  a  hard 
eye  ;  it  reminded  me  of  Mrs.  Reed's  ;  she 
mouthed  her  words  in  speaking ;  her  voice  was 
deep,  its  inflections  very  pompous,  very  dog- 
matical— very  intolerable,  in  short.  A  crimson 
velvet  robe,  and  a  shawl  turban  of  some  gold- 
wrought  Indian  fabric,  invested  her  (I  supposo 
she  thought)  with  a  truly  imperial  dignity.  ' 

Blanche  and  Mary  were  of  equal  stature — 
straight  and  tall  as  poplars.  Mary  was  too 
slim  for  her  height ;  but  Blanche  was  molded 
like  a  Diana.  I  regarded  her,  of  course,  with* 
special  interest.  First,  I  wished  tp  see  whether 
her  appearance  accorded  with  Mrs.  Fairfax's 
description  ;  secondly,  whether  it  at  all  resem- 
bled the  fancy  miniature  I  had  painted  of  her ; 
and  thirdly— it  will  out  !  whether  it  were  such 
as  I  should  fancy  likely  to  suit  Mr.  Rochester's 
taste. 

As  far  as  person  went,  she  answered  point 
for'point,  both  to  my  picture  and  Mrs.  Fairfax'^ 
description.  The  noble  bust,  the  sloping  shoul- 
ders, the  graceful  neck,  the  dark  eyes  and  black 
ringlets  were  all  there — but  her  face  1  Her 
face  was  like  her  mother's;  a  youthful,  unfur- 
rowed  likeness  ;  the  same  low  brow,  the  same 
high  features,  the  same  pride.*  It  was  not, 
however,  so  saturnine  a  pride  ;  she  laughed 
continually  ;  her  laugh  was  satirical,  and  so 
was  the  habitual  expression  of  her  arched  and 
haughty  lip. 

Genius  is  said  to  be  self-conscious  ;  I  can  not 
tell  whether  Miss  Ingram  was  a  genius,  but  she 
was  self-conscious — remarkably  self-conscious 
indeed.  She  entered  into  a  discourse  on  botany 
with  the  gentle  Mrs.  Dent.  It  seems  Mra. 
Dent  had  not  studied  that  science,  though,  as 
she  said,  she  liked  flowers,  "especially  wild 
ones  ;"  Miss  Ingram  had,  and  she  ran  over  its 
vocabulary  with  an  air.  I  presently  perceived 
she  was  (what  is  vernacularly  termed)  trailing 
Mrs.  Dent;  that  is.  playing  on  her  ignorance: 
her  trait  might  be  clever,  but  it  was  decidedly 
not  good-natured.  She  played  ;  her  execution 
was  brilliant ;  she  sang :  her  voice  was  fine^; 
she  talked  French  apart  to  her  mamma,  and 
she  talked  it  well,  with  fluency  and  with  a  good 
accent. 

Mary  had  a  milder  and  more  open  counte- 
nance than  Blanche  ;  softer  features  too,  and  a 
skin  some  shades  fairer  (Miss  Ingram  was  dark 
as  a  Spaniard) — hut  Mary  was  deficient  in  life  ; 
her  face  lacked  expression,  her  eye  luster ;  she 
had  nothing  to  say,  and  having  once  taken  her 
seat,  remained  fixed  like  a  sthlue  in  its  niche. 
The  sisters  were  both  attired  in  spotless  white. 

And  did  I  now  I'.iink  Miss  Ingram  such  a 
choice  as  Mr.  Rochester  \vould  be  likely  to 
makel  I  could  not  iell — I  did  not  know  his 
taste  in  female  beauty.  If  he  liked  the  majes- 
tic, she  was  the  very  type  of  majesty  ;  then  she 
was  accomplished,  sprightly.  Most  gentlemen 
would  admire  her,  I  thought ;  and  that  ho  did 
admire  her,  I  already  seemed  to  have  obtained 
proof;  to  remove  the  last  shade  of  doubt,  it 
remained  hut  to  see  them  together. 

You  are  not  to  suppose,  reader,  that  Ad^le 
has  all  this  time  been  sitting  motionless  on  the 


JANE  EYRE. 


6t 


stool  at  my  feet ;  no,  when  the  ladies  entered, 
she  rose,  advanced  to  meet  them,  made  a  stately 
reven'nce,  and  said,  wiili  gravity — 

"  B(in  j<tur,  mesdaines." 

And  Miss  Ingram  had  h)oked  down  at  her 
with  a  mocking  air,  and  exclaimed,  "Oh,  what 
a  little  puppet !" 

Lady  Lynn  had  remarked,  "  It  is  Mr.  Roches- 
^ter'8  ward,  I  suppose— the  little  French  girl  he 
:'was  speaking  ot." 

Mrs.  Dent  had  kindly  taken  her  hand,  and 
•  given  her  a  kiss.     Amy  and  Louisa  Eshion  had 
cried  out  simullaneousiy — 

"  What  a  love  of  a  child  !" 

And  then  they  had  called  her  to  a  sofa,  where 
ehe  now  sat,  ensconced  hetween  them,  chatter- 
ing alternately  in  French  and  liroken  English  ; 
absorhing  not  only  the  young  ladie.s'  attention, 
but  that  of  Mrs.  Eshton  and  Lady  Lynn,  and 
getting  spoiled  to  her  heart's  content. 

At  last  coffee  is  hrought  in,  and  the  gentlemen 
are  summoned.  I  sit  in  the  shade — if  any  shade 
there  be  in  this  brilliantly-lighted  apartment; 
the  window-curtain  half  hides  rue.  Again  the 
arch  yawns ;  they  come.  The  collective  ap- 
\  pearance  of  the  gentlemen,  like  that  of  the 
ladies,  is  very  imposing  ;  they  are  all  costumed 
in  black  ;  most  of  them  are  tall,  some  young. 
Henry  and  Frederic  Lynn  are  very  dashing 
sparks,  indeed  ;  and  Colonel  Dent  is  a  line  sol- 
diery man.  Mr.  Ebhton,  the  magistrate  of  the 
district,  is  gentlemanlike  ;  his  hair  is  quite 
white,  his  eyebrows  and  whiskers  still  dark, 
which  gives  him  something  of  the  appearance 
of  a  "  pere  noble  de  tlieatre."  Lord  Ingram, 
like  his  sisters,  is  very  tall ;  like  them,  also,  he 
is  handsome  ;  but  he  shares  Mary's  apathetic 
and  listless  look  ;  he  seems  to  have  more  length 
of  limb  than  vivacity  of  blood  or  vigor  of  brain. 

And  where  is  Mr.  Rochester  1 

He  comes  in  last ;  I  am  not  looking  at  the 
irch,  yet  I  see  him  enter.  I  try  to  concentrate 
my  attention  on  these  netting-needles,  on  the 
meshes  of  the  purse  I  am  forming — I  wish  to 
think  only  of  the  work  I  have  in  my  hands,  to 
see  only  the  silver  beads  and  silk  threads  that 
lie  in  my  lap;  whereas,  I  distinctly  beh<dd  his 
figure,  and  I  inevitably  recall  the  moment  when 
I  last  saw  it;  just  after  I  had  rendered  him, 
what  he  deemed,  an  essential  service — and  he, 
holding  my  hand,  and  looking  down  on  my  face, 
surveyed  me  with  eyes  llia,t  revealed  a  heart 
full  and  eager  to  overflow  ;  in  whose  emotions 
I  had  a  part.  How  near  had  I  approached  him 
at  that  moment  !  What  had  occurred  sincfe, 
calculated  to  change  his  and  my  relative  posi- 
tions 1  Yet  now,  how  distant,  how  far  es- 
tranged we  were  !  so  far  estranged,  that  I  did 
not  expect  him  to  come  and  speak  to  me.  J 
did  not  wonder,  when,  without  looking  at  me, 
he  took  a  seat  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  and 
began  conversing  with  some  of  the  ladies. 

No  sooner  did  I  see  that  his  attention  was 
riveted  on  them,  and  that  I  might  gaze  without 
ieing  observed,  than  my  eyes  were  drawn  in- 
voluntarily to  his  face ;  I  could  not  keep  their 
ids  under  control;  they  would  rise,  and  the 
Tids  would  fix  on  him.  I  looked,  and  had  an 
acute  pleasure  in  looking — a  precious,  yet  poig- 
aant  pleasure  ;  pure  gold,  with  a  steely  point 
»f  agony;  a  pleasure  like  what  the  thirst-per- 
iahing  man  might  feel  who  knows  the  well  to 


which  he  has  crept  is  poisoned,  yet  stoops  and 
drinks  divine  draughts  nevertheless. 

Most  true  is  it  that  "  beauty  is  in  the  eye  of 
the  gazer."  My  master's  colorless,  olive  face, 
square,  massive  brow,  broad  and  jetty  eye- 
brows, deep  eyes,  strong  features,  firm,  grim 
mouih — all  energy,  decision,  will — were  not 
beautiful,  according  to  rule  ;  but  they  were 
more  than  beautiful  to  me  ;  they  were  full  of 
an  interest,  an  influence  that  quite  mastered 
me — that  took  my  feelings  from  my  own  power 
and  fettered  them  in  his.  I  had  not  intended 
to  love  him  ;  the  reader  knows  I  had  wrought 
hard  to  extirpate  from  my  soul  the  germs  of 
love  there  detected  ;  and  now,  at  the  first  re- 
newed view  of  him,  they  spontaneously  revived, 
green  and  strong  !  He  made  me  love  him  with- 
out looking  at  me. 

I  compared  him  with  his  guests.  What  was 
the  gallant  grace  of  the  Lynns,  the  languid  ele- 
gance of  Lord  Ingram — even  the  military  dis- 
tmction  of  Colonel  Dent  contrasted  with  his 
look  of  native  pith  and  genuine  power  1  I  had 
no  sympathy  in  their  appearance,  their  expres- 
sion ;  yet  I  could  imagine  that  most  observers 
would  call  them  attractive,  handsome,  imposing ; 
while  they  would  pronounce  Mr.  Rochester  at 
once  harsh-featured  and  melancholy-looking.  I 
saw  them  smile,  laugh— it  was  nothing  ;  the 
light  of  the  candles  had  as  much  soul  in  it  as 
their  smile  ;  the  tinkle  of  the  bell  as  much  sig- 
nificance as  their  laugh.  I  saw  Mr.  Rochester 
smile — his  stern  features  softened  ;  his  eye 
grew  both  brilliant  and  gentle,  its  ray  both 
searching  and  sweet.  He  was  talking,  at  the 
moment,  to  Louisa  and  Amy  Eshton.  I  won- 
dered to  see  them  receive  with  calm  that  look 
which  seemed  to  me  so  penetrating  ;  I  expected 
their  eyes  to  fall,  their  color  to  rise  under  it; 
yet  I  was  glad  when  I  found  they  were  in  no 
sense  moved.  "  He  is  not  to  them  what  he  is 
to  me,"  I  thought,  *•  he  is  not  of  their  kind.  I 
believe  he  is  of  mine ;  I  am  sure  he  is — I  feel 
akin  to  him — I  understand  the  language  of  his 
countenance  and  movements  ;  though  rank  and 
wealth  sever  us  widely,  I  have  something  in 
my  brain  and  heart,  in  my  blood  and  nerves, 
that  assimilates  me  mentally  to  him.  Did  I 
say,  a  few  days  since,  that  I  had  nothing  to  do 
with  him  but  to  receive  my  salary  at  his  hands? 
Did  I  forbid  myself  to  think  of  him  in  any  other 
light  than  as  a  paymaster  ?  Blasphemy  against 
nature  !  Every  good,  true,  vigorous  feeling  I 
have,  gathers  impulsively  round  him.  I  know 
I  must  conceal  my  sentiments  :  I  must  smother 
hope ;  I  must  remember  that  he  can  not  care 
much  for  me.  For  when  I  say  that  I  am  of  his  • 
kind,  I  dd  not  mean  that  I  have  his  force  tc 
influence,  and  his  spell  to  attract ;  I  mean  only 
that  I  have  certain  tastes  and  feeling  in  com- 
mon with  him.  I  must,  then,  repeat  continually 
that  we  are  forever  sundered  ;  and  yet,  while  I 
breathe  and  think,  I  must  love  him. 

Coffee  is  handed.  The  ladies,  since  the  gen- 
tlemen entered,  have  become  lively  as  larks; 
conversation  waxes  brisk  and  merry.  Colonel 
Dent  and  Mr.  Eshton  argue  on  politics ;  their 
wives  listen.  The  two  proud  dowagers,  Lady 
Lynn  and  Lady  Ingram,  confabulate  together. 
Sir  George — whom,  by  the  by,  I  have  forgotten 
to  describe — a  very  big,  and  very  fresh-looking 
country  gentleman,  stands  before  the  sofa,  cof- 


68 


JANE  EYRE. 


fee-cup  in  hand,  and  occasionally  puts  in  a 
word.  Mr.  Frederic  Lynn  has  taken  a  seat 
beside  Mary  Ingrann,  and  is  showing  her  the 
engravings  of  a  splendid  volume  ;  she  looks, 
smiles  now  and  then,  but  apparently  says  little. 
The  tall  and  phlegmatic  Lord  Ingram  leans 
with  folded  arms  on  the  chair-back  of  the  little 
and  lively  Amy  Eshton  ;  she  glances  up  at 
him,  and  chatters  like  a  wren  ;  she  likes  him 
better  than  she  does  Mr.  Rochester.  Henry 
Lynn  has  taken  possession  of  an  ottoman  at 
the  feet  of  Louisa  ;  Adele  shares  it  with  him  ; 
he  is  trying  to  talk  French  with  her,  and  Louisa 
laughs  at  his  blunders.  With  whom  will 
Blanche  Ingram  repair  1  She  is  standing  alone 
at  the  table,  bending  gracefully  over  an  album. 
She  seems  waiting  to  be  sought ;  but  she  will 
not  wait  too  long ;  she  herself  selects  a  mate. 

Mr.  Rochester,  having  quitted  the  Eshtons, 
stands  on  the  hearth  as  solitary  as  she  stands 
by  the  table ;  she  confronts  him,  taking  her 
station  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  mantle- 
piece. 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  I  thought  you  were  not 
fond  of  children  V 

"Nor  am  I." 

"  Then,  what  induced  you  to  take  charge  of 
such  a  little  doll  as  that  1  (pointing  to  Adele). 
Where  did  you  pick  her  upl" 

"  I  did  not  pick  her  up,  she  was  left  on  my 
hands." 

"  You  should  have  sent  her  to  school." 

"  I  could  not  afTord  it ;  schools  are  so  dear." 

"  Why,  I  suppose  you  have  a  governess  for 
her  ;  I  saw  a  person  with  her  just  now — is  she 
gone  1  Oh,  no !  there  she  is  still  behind  the 
window-curtain.  You  pay  her,  of  course  ;  I 
should  think  it  quite  as  expensive — more  so ; 
for  you  have  them  both  to  keep  in  addition." 

I  feared — or  should  I  say,  hoped  1 — the  allu- 
sion to  me  would  make  Mr.  Rochester  glance 
my  way  ;  and  I  involuntarily  shrunk  farther 
into  the  shade  ;  but  he  never  turned  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  not  considered  the  subject,"  said  he, 
indifferently,  looking  straight  before  him. 

"  No — you  men  never  do  consider  economy 
and  common  sense.  You  should  hear  mamma 
on  the  chapter  of  governesses  ;  Mary  and  I 
have  had,  I  should  think,  a  dozen  at  least  in 
our  day;  half  of  them  detestable  and  the  rest 
ridiculous,  and  all  incubi — were  they  not,  mam- 
ma!" 

"  Did  you  speak,  my  own  1" 

The  young  lady  thus  claimed  as  the  dow- 
agers's  special  property,  reiterated  her  question 
with  an  explanation. 

"  My  dearest,  don't  mention  governesses  ; 
the  word  makes  me  nervous.  I  have  suffered 
a  martyrdom  from  their  incompetency  and  ca- 
price ;  I  thank  Heaven  I  have  now  done  with 
them  !" 

Mrs.  Dent  now  bent  over  to  the  pious  lady, 
and  whispered  something  in  her  ear;  I  suppose 
from  the  answer  elicited,  it  was  a  reminder 
that  one  of  the  anathematized  race  was  present. 
"Tant  pis!"  said  lier  ladyship,  "I  hope  it 
may  do  her  good  !"  Then,  in  a  lower  tone, 
but  still  loud  enough  for  me  to  hear,  "  I  noticed 
her  ;  I  am  a  judge  of  physiognomy,  and  in  hers 
I  see  all  the  faults  of  her  class." 

"What    are    they,    madam?"   inquired   Mr. 
Rochester,  aloud. 


"  I  will  tell  you  in  your  private  ear,'"  replied 
she,  wagging  her  turban  three  times  with  por-' 
tentous  significancy. 

"  But  my  curiosity  will  be  past  its  appetite  ; 
it  craves  food  now." 

"  Ask  Blanche  ;  she  is  nearer  you  than  L" 

"  Oh,  don't  refer  him  to  me,  mamma  !  I 
have  just  one  word  to  say  of  the  whole  tribe — 
they  are  a  nuisance.  Not  that  I  ever  suffered 
much  from  them ;  I  took  care  to  turn  the 
tables.  What  tricks  Theodore  and  I  used  to 
play  on  our  Miss  Wilsons,  and  Mrs.  Greys,  and 
Madame  Jouberts  I  Mary  was  always  too 
sleepy  to  join  in  a  plot  with  spirit.  The  best 
fun  was  with  Madame  Joubert ;  Miss  Wilson 
was  a  poor  sickly  thing,  lachrymose  and  low- 
spirited  ;  not  worth  the  trouble  of  vanquishing, 
in  short;  and  Mrs.  Grey  was  coarse  and  in- 
sensible ;  no  blow  took  effect  on  her.  But 
poor  Madame  Joubert !  I  see  her  yet  in  her 
raging  passions,  when  we  had  driven  her  to  ex- 
tremities— spilled  our  tea,  crumbled  our  bread 
and  butter,  tossed  our  books  up  to  the  ceiling, 
and  played  a  charivari  with  the  ruler  and  desk, 
the  fender  and  fireirons.  Theodore,  do  you 
remember  those  merry  days!" 

"  Yaas,  to  be  sure  I  do,"  drawled  Lord  In- 
gram ;  "  and  the  poor  old  stick  used  to  cry  out 
'  Oh  you  villains  childs  !' — and  then  we  sermon- 
ized her  on  the  presumption  of  attempting  to 
teach  such  clever  blades  as  we  were,  when  she 
was  herself  so  ignorant.'' 

"  We  did  ;  and  Tedo,  you  know,  I  helped 
you  in  prosecuting  (or  persecuting)  your  tutor, 
whey-faced  Mr.  Vining — the  parson  in  the  pip, 
as  we  used  to  call  him.  He  and  Miss  Wilson 
took  the  liberty  of  falling  in  love  with  each 
other — at  least  Tedo  and  I  thought  so  ;  we 
surprised  sundry  tender  glances  and  sighs 
which  we  interpreted  as  tokens  of  'la  belle 
passion,'  and  I  promise  you  the  public  soon  had 
the  benefit  of  our  discovery  ;  we  employed  it  as 
a  sort  of  lever  to  hoist  our  dead-weights  from 
the  house.  Dear  mamma  there,  as  soon  as  she 
got  an  inkling  of  the  business,  found  out  that  it 
was  of  an  immoral  tendency.  Did  you  not, 
my  lady-mother  !" 

"  Certainly,  my  best.  And  I  was  quite  right ; 
depend  on  that ;  there  are  a  thousand  reasons 
why  liaisons  between  governesses  and  tutors 
should  never  be  tolerated  a  moment  in  any 
well-regulated  house  ;  firstly — " 

"  Oh  gracious,  mamma  !  Spare  us  the  enu- 
meration !  Au  reste,  we  all  know  them  ;  dan- 
ger of  bad  example  to  innocence  of  childhood  ; 
distractions  and  consequent  neglect  of  duty  on 
the  part  of  the  attached ;  mutual  alliance  and 
reliance;  conlidence  thence  resulting — iiso- 
lence  accompanying — mutiny  and  general  blow- 
up. Am  I  right,  Baroness  Ingram  of  Ingram 
Park!" 

"My  lily-flower,  you  are  right  now  as  al- 
ways." 

"  Then  no  more  need  be  said  ;  change  the 
[  subject." 

.Amy  Eshton,  not  hearing  or  not  heeding  this 

'  dictum,  joined  in  with  her  soft,  infantine  tone  : 

"  Louisa  and  I  used  to  quiz  our  governess  too  ; 

but  she  was  such  a  good  creature,  she  would 

hear  any  thing  ;  nothing  put  her  out.     She  was 

;  never  cross  with  us  ;  was  she,  Louisa !" 

I      "  No,  never ;  we  might  do  v^hat  we  pleased  ; 


JANE  EYRE. 


69 


ransack  her  desk  and  her  workbox,  and  turn 
her  drawers  inside  out ;  and  she  was  so  good- 
naiiired  she  would  give  us  any  thing  we  asked 
for." 

"  I  suppose  now,"  said  Miss  Ingram,  curling 
her  lip  sarcastically,  "  we  shall  have  an  abstract 
of  the  memoirs  of  all  the  governesses  extant ; 
in  order  to  avert  such  a  visitation,  I  again  move 
the  introduction  of  a  new  topic.  Mr.  Roches- 
ter, do  you  second  my  motion'!" 

"  Madam,  I  support  you  on  this  point  as  on 
every  other." 

"  Then  on  me  be  the  onus  of  bringing  it  for- 
ward. Signior  Eduardo,  are  you  in  voice  to- 
night 1" 

"Donna  Bianca,  if  you  command  it,  I  will 
be." 

"Then,  signior,  I  lay  on  you  my  sovereign 
behest  to  furbish  up  your  lungs  and  other  vocal 
organs,  as  they  will  be  wanted  on  my  royal 
service." 

"Who  would  not  be  the  Rizzio  of  so  divine 
a  Maryl" 

"A  fig  for  Rizzio!"  cried  she,  tossing  her 
head  with  all  its  curls,  as  she  moved  to  the 
piano.  "It  is  my  opinion  the  fiddler  David 
must  have  been  an  insipid  sort  of  fellow  ;  I 
like  black  Bothwell  better  ;  to  my  mind  a  man 
is  nothing  without  a  spice  of  the  devil  in  him  ; 
and  history  may  say  what  it  will  of  James 
Hepburn,  but  I  have  a  notion  he  was  just  that 
sort  of  wild,  fierce,  bandit-hero  whom  I  could 
have  consented  to  gift  with  my  hand." 

"  Gentlemen,  you,  hear  !  Now  which  of  you 
most  resembles  Bothwell  1"  cried  Mr.  Roches- 
ter. 

"  I  should  say  the  preference  lies  with  you," 
responded  Colonel  Dent. 

"  On  my  honor,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you," 
was  the  reply. 

Miss  Ingram,  who  had  now  seated  herself 
with  proud  grace  at  the  piano,  spreading  out 
her  snowy  robes  in  queenly  amplitude,  com- 
menced a  brilliant  prelude,  talking  meantime. 
She  appeared  to  be  on  her  high  horse  to-night ; 
both  her  words  and  her  air  seemed  intended  to 
excite  not  only  tiie  admiration,  but  the  amaze- 
ment of  her  auditors  ;  she  was  evidently  bent 
oYi  striking  them  as  something  very  dashing 
and  daring  indeed. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  sick  of  the  young  men  of  the 
present  day  I"  exclaimed  she,  rattling  away  at 
the  instrument.  "  Poor,  puny  things,  not  fit  to 
stir  a  step  beyond  papa's  park-gates  ;  nor  to  go 
even  so  far  without  mamma's  permission  and 
guardianship  !  Creatures  so  absorbed  in  care 
about  their  pretty  faces  and  their  white  hands, 
and  their  small  feet ;  as  if  a  man  had  any  thing 
to  do  with  beauty  !  As  if  loveliness  were  not 
the  special  prerogative  of  woman — her  legiti- 
mate appanage  and  heritage  !  I  grant  an  ugly 
woman  is  a  blot  on  the  fair  face  of  creation  ; 
but  as  to  the  gentlemen,  let  them  be  solicitous 
to  possess  only  strength  and  valor;  let  their 
motto  be—Hunt,  shoot,  and  fight ;  the  rest  is 
not  worth  a  fillip.  Such  should  be  my  device, 
were  I  a  man." 

"  Whenever  I  marry,"  she  continued,  after  a  | 
pause,  which  none  interrupted,  "  I  am  resolv- 
ed my  husband  shall  not  be  a  rival,  but  a  foil 
to  me.     I  will  suffer  no  competitor  near  the 
throne :  J  sJjail   exact  an  undivided  homage  ; 


his  devotions  shall  not  be  shared  between  me 
and  the  shape  he  sees  in  his  mirror.  Mr.  Ro- 
chester, now  sing,  and  1  will  play  for  you." 

"  I  am  all  obedience,"  was  the  response. 

"  Here,  then,  is  a  corsair-song.  Know  that 
I  dote  on  corsairs  ;  and  for  that  reason,  sing 
it  '  con  spiiito.'  " 

'  Commands  from  Miss  Ingram's  lips  would 
put  spirit  into  a  mug  of  milk  and  water." 

"  Take  care,  then  ;  if  you  don't  please  me,  I 
will  shame  you  by  showing  how  such  things 
should  be  done." 

"  That  is  offering  a  premium  on  incapacity  : 
I  shall  now  endeavor  to  fail." 

"  Gardez-vous  en  bien  !     If  you  err  willfully, 
I  shall  devise  a  proportionate  punishtnent." 
.  "  Miss  Ingram  ought  to  be  clement,  for  she 
has  it  in  her  power  to  inflict  a  chastisement 
beyond  mortal  endurance." 

"  Ha  !  explain  !"  commanded  the  lady. 

"  Pardon  me,  madam  ;  no  need  of  explana- 
tion ;  your  own  fine  sense  must  inform  you 
that  one  of  your  frowns  would  be  a  sufficient 
substitute  for  capital  punishment." 

"  Sing !"  said  she,  and  again  touching  the 
piano  she  commenced  an  accompaniment  in 
spirited  style. 

"  Now  is  my  time  to  slip  away,"  thought  I : 
but  the  tones  that  then  severed  the  air  arrested 
me.  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  said  Mr.  Rochester 
possessed  a  fine  voice :  he  did — a  mellow, 
powerful  bass,  into  which  he  threw  his  own 
feeling,  his  own  force ;  finding  a  way  through 
the  ear  to  the  heart,  and  there  waking  sensa- 
tion strangely.  I  waited  till  the  last  deep  and 
full  vibration  had  expired — till  the  tide  of  talk, 
checked  an  instant,  had  resumed  its  flow ;  I 
then  quitted  my  sheltered  corner  and  made  my 
exit  by  the  side-door,  which  was  fortunately 
near.  Thence  a  narrow  passage  led  into  the 
hall ;  in  crossing  it,  I  perceived  my  sandal  w^^ 
loose  ;  I  stooped  to  tie  it,  kneeling  down  for 
that  purpose  on  the  mat  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case. I  heard  the  dining-room  door  unclose ; 
a  gentleman  came  out  ;  rising  hastily,  I  stood 
face  to  face  with  him  ;   it  was  Mr.  Rochester. 

"  How  do  you  do  1"  he  asked. 

"  I  am  very  well,  sir." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  and  speak  to  me  in 
the  room'!" 

I  thought  I  might  have  retorted  the  question 
on  him  who  put  it ;  but  I  would  not  take  that 
freedom.     I  answered, 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  disturb  you,  as  you  seem- 
ed engaged,  sir." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  during  my  ab- 
sence ?" 

"Nothing  particular;  teaching  Adele  as 
usual." 

"And  getting  a  good  deal  paler  than  you 
were — as  I  saw  at  first  sight.  What  is  the 
matter?' 

"  Nothing  at  all,  sir." 

"  Did  you  take  any  cold  that  night  you  half 
drowned  me  V 

"Not  the  least." 

"  Return  to  the  drawing-room ;  you  are  de 
serting  too  early." 

"  I  am  tired,  sir." 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  minute. 

"And  a  little  depressed,"  he  said.  "What 
about '     Tell  me." 


70 


JANE  EYKE. 


"  Nothing— nothing,  sir.  I  am  not  depress- 
ed." 

"  But  I  affirm  that  you  are ;  so  much  de- 
pressed that  a  few  more  words  would  bring 
tears  to  your  eyes — indeed,  they  are  there  now, 
shining  and  swimming  ;  and  a  bead  has  slipped 
from  the  lash  and  fallen  on  to  the  flag.  If  I 
had  time,  and  was  not  in  mortal  dread  of  some 
prating  prig  of  a  servant  passing,  I  would  know 
what  all  this  means.  Well,  to-night  I  excuse 
you  ;  but  understand  that  so  long  as  my  visit- 
ors stay,  I  expect  you  to  appear  in  the  drawing- 
room  every  evening  ;  it  is  my  wish  :  don't  neg- 
lect it.  Now  go,  and  send  Sophie  for  Adele. 
Good  night,  my — "  He  stopped,  bit  his  lip, 
and  abruptly  left  tne. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Mekry  days  were  these  at  Thornfield  Hall, 
and  b^isy  days  too  ;  how  difTereiit  from  the  first 
three  months  of  stillness,  monotony,  and  soli- 
tude I  had  passed  beneath  its  roof!  All  sad 
feelings  seemed  now  driven  from  the  house,  all 
gloomy  associations  forgotten  ;  there  was  life 
every  where,  movement  all  day  long.  You 
could  not  now  traverse  the  gallery,  once  so 
hushed,  nor  enter  the  front  chamber,  once  so 
tenaniless,  without  encountering  a  smart  lady's- 
maid  or  a  dandy  valet. 

The  kitchen,  the  butler's  pantry,  the  servants' 
hall,  the  entrance-hall,  were  equally  alive  ;  and 
thfi  saloons  were  only  left  void  and  still,  when 
the  blue  sky  and  halcyon  sunshine  of  the  genial 
spring  weather  called  their  occupants  out  into 
the  grounds.  Even  when  that  weather  was 
broken,  and  continuous  rain  set  in  for  some 
days,  no  damp  seemed  cast  over  enjoyment ; 
in-door  amusements  only  became  more  lively 
and  varied,  in  consequence  of  the  stop  put  to 
out-door  gayety. 

I  wondered  what  they  were  going  to  do  the 
first  evening  a  change  of  entertainment  was 
proposed:  they  spoke  of  "playing  charades," 
but  in  my  ignorance  I  did  not  understand  the 
term.  The  servants  were  called  in,  the  dining- 
room  tables  wheeled  away,  the  lights  otherwise 
disposed,  the  chairs  placed  in  a  semicircle  op- 
posite the  arch.  While  Mr.  Rochester  and  the 
other  gentlemen  directed  these  alterations,  the 
ladies  were  running  up  and  down  stairs  ringing 
/o.  their  maids.  Mrs.  Fairfax  was  summoned 
to  give  information  respecting  the  resources  of 
the  house  in  shawls,  dresses,  draperies  of  any 
kind  :  and  certain  wardrobes  of  tlie  third  story 
were  ransacked,  and  their  contents,  in  the 
shape  of  brocaded  and  hooped  petticoats,  satin 
sacques,  black  modes,  lace  lappets,  &c.,'  were 
brought  down  in  armfuls  by  the  abigails  ;  then 
a  selection  was  made,  and  such  things  as  were 
chosen  were  carried  to  the  boudoir  within  the 
<lrawiiig-room. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Rochester  had  again  sum- 
moned the  ladies  round  him,  and  was  selecting 
certain  of  their  numhtr  to  he  of  his  party. 
'  Miss  Ingram  is  mine,  of  course,"  said  he ; 
^^terward  he  named  the  two  Misses  Eshton, 
>nd  Mrs.  Dent.  He  looked  at  me  ;  I  happened 
to  be  near  him,  as  I  had  been  fastening  the 
ria«p  of  Mrs.  Dent's  bracelet,  which  had  got 
loose. 


"  Will  you  play !"  he  asked.  I  shook  my 
head.  He  did  not  insist,  which  I  rather  feare4 
he  would  have  done  ;  he  allowed  mc  to  return 
quietly  to  my  usual  seat. 

He  and  his  aids  now  withdrew  behind  the 
curtain  ;  the  other  parly,  which  was  headed  by 
Colonel  Dent,  sat  down  on  tlie  crescent  of 
chairs.  One  of  the  gentlemen,  Mr.  Eshlon,  ob- 
serving me,  seemed  to  propose  that  1  should  be 
asked  lo  join  them  ;  but  Lady  Ingram  mslanllj 
negatived  the  notion. 

"No,"  I  heard  her  say;  "she  looks  too 
stupid  for  any  game  of  the  sort." 

Ere  long,  a  bell  tinkled,  and  the  curtain  drew 
up.  Within  the  aich,  the  bulky  figure  of  Sir 
George  Lynn,  whom  Mr.  Rochester  had  like- 
wise chosen,  was  seen  enveloped  in  a  white 
sheet ;  before  him,  on  a  table,  lay  open  a  large 
book;  and  at  his  side  stood,  Amy  Eshton, 
draped  in  Mr.  Rochester's  cloak,  and  holding  a 
hook  ill  her  hand.  Sumebody,  unseen,  rung  the 
bell  merrily  ;  liien  Adele  (who  had  insisted  on 
being  one  of  her  guardian's  party),  hounded  for- 
ward, scattering  round  her  the  contents  of  a 
basket  of  flowers  she  carried  on  her  arm. 
Then  appeared  the  magnificent  figure  of  Misa 
Ingram,  clad  in  while,  a  long  veil  on  her  head, 
and  a  wreath  of  roses  round  her  brow  :  by  her 
side  walked  Mr.  Rochester,  and  together  they 
drew  near  the  table.  They  kneeled,  while 
Mrs.  Dent  and  Louisa  Eshton,  dressed  also  in 
white,  took  up  their  stations  behind  them.  A 
ceremony  followed  in  dimib  show,  in  which  U 
was  easy  to  recognize  the  pantomime  of  a  mar- 
riage. At  its  termination,  Colonel  Dent  and 
his  party  consulted  in  whispers  for  two  minutes, 
then  the  colonel  called  out, 

"Bride!"  Mr.  Rochester  bowed  Tind  the 
curtain  fell. 

A  considerable  interval  elapsed  before  it  again 
rose.  Its  second  rising  displayed  a  more  elab- 
orately-prepared scene  than  the  last.  The 
drawing-room,  as  I  have  before  observed,  was 
raised  two  steps  above  the  dining-room,  and  on 
the  top  of  the  upper  step,  placed  a  yard  or  two 
back  within  the  room,  appeared  a  large  marble 
basin,  which  I  recognized  as  an  ornament  of 
the  conservatory — where  it  usually  stood  sur- 
rounded by  exotics,  and  tenanted  by  gold-fish — 
and  whence  it  must  have  been  transported  with 
some  trouble,  on  account  of  its  size  and  weight. 

Seated  on  the  carpel,  by  the  side  of  this 
basin,  was  seen  Mr.  Rochester,  costumed  in 
shawls,  with  a  turban  on  his  head.  His  dark 
eyes  and  swarth  skin  and  Paynim  features 
suiicd  the  costume  exactly  ;  he  looked  the  very 
model  of  an  eastern  emir,  an  agent  or  a  victim 
of  the  bowstring.  Presently  advanced  into 
view  Miss  Ingrain.  She,  too,  was  atlired  in 
oriental  fashion  ;  a  crimsop  scarf  tied  sash-like 
round  the  waist ;  an  embroidered  handkerchief 
knotted  about  her  temples ;  h<  r  beautifully- 
molded  arms  bare,  one  of  Ihein  upraised  in 
the  act  of  supporting:  a  pitcher,  poised  grace- 
fully on  her  head.  Both  her  cast  of  Ibrin  and 
feature,  her  complexion  and  her  general  air 
suggested  the  idea  of  some  Israoliiish  princess 
of  the  patriarchal  days ;  and  such  was  doubt- 
less the  character  she  intended  to  represent 

She  approached  Ihc  basin,  and  bent  over  it  aa 
if  to  fill  her  pitcher  ;  she  again  lifted  it  to  her 
head.     The  personage  on  the  well-brink  now 


JANE  EYRE. 


1 


f-eemed  to  accost  her ;  to  make  some  request : 
"  She  hasted,  let  down  her  pitcher  on  her  hand, 
and  gave  him  to  drink."  From  the  hosom  of 
his  robe,  he  then  produced  a  casket,  opened 
it  and  showed  magnificent  bracelets  and  ear- 
rings; she  acted  astonishment  and  admiration: 
kneeling,  he  laid  the  treasure  at  her  leet :  in- 
credulity and  delight  were  expressed  by  her 
looks  and  gestures  ;  the  stranger  fastened  the 
bracelets  on  her  arms  and  the  rings  in  iier  ears. 
It  was  Eliezer  and  Rebecca  :  the  camels  only 
were  wanting. 

The  divining  party  again  laid  their  heads  to- 
gether;  apparently  they  could  not  agree  about 
the  word  or  syllable  this  scene  illustrated. 
Colonel  Dent,  their  spokesman,  demanded  "  the 
tableau  of  the  Whole  ;"  whereupon  the  curtain 
again  descended. 

On  its  third  rising  only  a  portion  of  the 
drawing-room  was  disclosed,  the  rest  being 
concealed  by  a  screen,  hang  with  some  sort  of 
dark  and  coarse  drapery.  The  marble  basin 
was  removed ;  in  its  place  stood  a  deal  table 
and  a  kitchen  chair :  these  objects  were  visible 
by  a  very  dini»  light  proceeding  from  a  horn 
lantern,  the  wax  candles  being  all  extinguished. 

Amid  Ihis  sordid  scene,  sat  a  man  with  his 
clenched  hands  resting  on  his  knees,  and  his 
eyes  bent  on  the  ground.  I  knew  Mr.  Roches- 
ter;  though  the  begrimed  face,  the  disordered 
dress  (his  coat  hanging  loose  from  one  arm,  as 
if  it  had  been  almost  torn  from  his  back  in  a 
scuffle),  the  desperate  and  scowling  counte- 
nance, the  rough,  bristling  hair  might  well  have 
disguised  him.  As  he  moved,  a  chain  clanked  ; 
to  his  wrists  were  attached  fetters. 

"  Bridewell !"  exclaimed  Colonel  Dent,  and 
the  charade  was  solved. 

A  sufficient  interval  having  elapsed  for  the 
performers  to  resume  their  ordinary  costume, 
they  re-entered  the  dining-room.  Mr.  Roches- 
ter led  in  Miss  Ingram  ;  she  was  complimentmg 
him  on  his  acting. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  she,  "  that,  of  the 
three  characters,  I  liked  you  in  the  last  best  T 
Oh,  had  you  but  lived  a  few  years  earlier,  what 
a  gallant  gentleman-highwayman  you  would 
have  made  !" 

"Is  all  the  soot  washed  from  my  face?"  he 
asked,  turning  it  toward  her. 

"  Alas  !  yes  ;  the  more"s  the  pity  !  Nothing 
could  be  more  becoming  to  your  complexion 
that  than  ruffian's  rouge." 

"You  would  like  a  hero  of  the  road,  then  1" 

"  An  English  hero  of  the  road  would  be  the 
next  best  thing  to  an  Italian  bandit ;  and  that 
could  only  be  surpassed  by  a  Levantine  pirate." 

"  Well,  whatever  I  am,  remember  you  are 
my  wife:  we  were  married  an  hour  since,  in 
the  presence  of  all  these  witnesses."  She  gig- 
gled, and  her  color  rose. 

"Now,  Dent,"  continued  Mr. -Rochester,  "it 
is  your  turn."  And,  as  the  other  party  wiili- 
drew,  he  and  his  band  took  the  vacated  seal.^. 
Miss  Ingram  placed  herself  at  her  leader's  right 
hand  ;  the  oiher  diviners  filled  the  chairs  on 
each  side  of  liim  and  her-.  I  did  not  now  walcb 
the  actors — I  no  longer  v»aited  with  interest  fDr 
the  curtain  to  rise  ;  my  attention  was  absorbed 
by  the  spectators  ;  my  eyes,  erewhile  fixed  on 
the  arch,  were  now  irresistibly  attracted  to  the 
semicircle  of  chairs.     What  charade  Colonel 


Dent  and  bis  parly  played,  what  word  they 
chose,  how  they  acquitted  themselves,  I  no 
longer  remember ;  but  I  still  see  the  consulta- 
tion which  followed  each  scene — I  see  Mr. 
Rochester  turn  to  Miss  Ingram,  and  Miss  In- 
gram to  him — I  see  her  incline  her  head  toward 
him,  till  the  jetty  curls  almost  touch  his  shoul- 
der, and  wave  against  his  cheek— I  hear  their 
mutual  whisperings— I  recall  their  interchanged 
glances  ;  and  something  even  of  the  feeling 
roused  by  lire  spectacle  returns  in  memory  at 
this  moment. 

I  have  told  you,  reader,  that  I  had  learned  to 
love  Mr.  Rochester:  I  could  not  unlove  him 
now,  merely  because  I  found  that  he  had  ceased 
to  notice  me — because  \'  might  pass  hours  in  his 
prt'sence,  and  he  would  never  once  turn  his  eyes 
in  my  direction — because  I  saw  all  his  atten- 
tions appropriated  by  a  great  lady,  who  scorned 
to  touch  me  with  the  hem  of  her  robes  as  she 
passed — who,  if  ever  her  dark  and  imperious 
eye  fell  on  me  hy  chance,  would  withdraw  it 
instantly,  as  from  an  object  too  mean  to  merit 
observation.  I  could  not  unlove  him,  because 
I  fell  sure  he  would  soon  marry  this  very  lady 
— because  I  read  daily  in  her  a  proud  security 
in  his  intentions  respecting  her — because  I  wit- 
nessed hourly  in  him  a  style  of  courtship, 
which,  if  careless,  and  choosing  rather  to  be 
sought  than  to  seek,  was  yet,  in  its  very  care- 
lessness, captivating,  and  in  its  very  pride  irre- 
sistible. 

There  was  nothing  to  cool  or  banish  love 
in  these  circumstances,  though  much  to  create 
despair.  Much,  too,  you  will  think,  reader,  to 
engender  jealousy,  if  a  woman  in  my  position 
could  presuiTie  to  be  jealous  of  a  woman  in  Miss 
Ingram's.  But  I  wa.s  not  jealous,  or  very  rare- 
ly—the nature  of  the  pain  I  suffered  could  not 
be  explained  hy  that  word.  Miss  Ingram  was  a 
mark  beneath  jealousy  :  she  was  too  inferior  to 
excite  the  feeling.  Pardon  the  seeming  para- 
dox— I  mean  what  I  say.  She  was  very  showy, 
but  she  was  not  genuine  ;  she  had  a  fine  person, 
nrany  brilliant  attainments ;  but  her  mind  was 
poor,  her  heart  barren  by  nature — nothing 
bloomed  spontaneously  on  that  soil — no  un- 
forced natural  fruit  delighted  by  its  freshness. 
She  was  not  good,  she  was  not  original ;  she 
used  to  repeat  sounding  phrases  from  books; 
she  never  offered,  nor  had,  an  opinion  of  her 
own.  She'advocaled  a  high  tone  of  sentiment ; 
hut  she  did  not  know  the  sensations  of  sympathy 
and  pity  ;  tenderness  and  truth  were  not  in  her. 
Too  often  she  betrayed  this  by  the  undue  vent 
she  gave  to  a  spiteful  antipathy  she  had  con- 
ceived against  little  Adele,  pushing  her  away 
witii  some  contumelious  epithet  if  sire  happened 
til  approach  her ;  sometimes  ordering  her  from 
tire  room,  and  always  treating  her  with  coldness 
anil  acrimony.  Other  eyes  besides  ujyne  watch- 
ed these  manifestations  of  character — watched 
them  closely,  keenly,  shrewdly.  Yes,  the  fu- 
Uiro  bridegroom,  Mr.  Rochester  himself,  exer- 
cised over  his  intended  a  ceaseless  surveillance; 
iiiiil  it  was  from  this  sagacity — thi«  guardedness 
ol  his — this  perfect,  clear  consciousness  of  his 
lair  one's  defects — this  t)bvious  absence  of  pas- 
sion in  his  sentiments  toward  her,  that  my  ever- 
torturing  pain  arose. 

I  saw  he  was  going  to  marry  her,  for  family, 
perhaps  political  reasons — because  her  rank  and 


T-2- 


JANE  EYRE. 


connections  suited  him  ;  I  felt  he  had  not  given 
her  his  love,  an5  that  her  qualifications  were  ill 
adapted  to  win  from  him  tiiat  treasure.  This 
was  the  point — this  was  where  the  nerve  was 
touched  and  teased — this  was  where  the  fever 
was  sustained  and  fed  :  she  could  not  charm 
him. 

If  she  had  managed  the  victory  at  once,  and 
he  had  yielded  and  sincerely  laid  his  heart  at 
her  feet,  I  should  have  covered  my  face,  turned 
to  the  wall,  and  (figuratively)  have  died  to  them. 
If  Miss  Ingram  had  been  a  good  and  noble 
woman,  endowed  with  force,  fervor,  kindness, 
sense,  I  should  have  had  one  vital  struggle 
with  two  tigers — jealousy  and  despair ;  then, 
my  heart  torn  out  and  devoured,  I  should  have 
admired  her — acknowledged  her  excellence,  and 
been  quiet  for  the  rest  of  my  days ;  and  the 
more  absolute  her  superiority,  the  deeper  would 
have  been  my  admiration — the  more  truly  tran- 
quil my  quiescence.  But  as  matters  really  stood, 
to  watch  Miss  Ingram's  efforts  at  fascinating 
Mr.  Rochester — to  witness  their  repeated  fail- 
ure— herself  unconscious  that  they  did  fail — 
vainly  fancying  that  each  shaft  lanched  hit  the 
mark,  and  infatuatedly  pluming  herself  on  suc- 
cess, when  her  pride  and  self-complaisancy  re- 
pelled further  and  further  what  she  wished  to 
allure — to  witness  this  was  to  be  at  once  under 
ceaseless  excitation  and  ruthless  restraint. 

Because,  when  she  failed,  I  saw  how  she 
might  have  succeeded.  Arrows  that  continu- 
ally glanced  off  from  Mr.  Rochester's  breast, 
and  fell  harmless  at  his  feet,  might,  I  knew,  if 
shot  by  a  surer  hand,  have  quivered  keen  in  his 
%  proud  heart — have  called  love  into  his  stern  eye, 
and  softness  into  his  sardonic  face  ;  or,  better 
still,  without  weapons,  a  silent  conquest  might 
have  been  won. 

"  Why  can  she  not  influence  him  more,  when 
she  is  privileged  to  draw  so  near  to  him  1"  I 
asked  myself.  "  Surely  she  can  not  truly  like 
him,  or  not  like  him  with  true  affection !  If 
she  did,  she  need  not  coin  her  smiles  so  lavish- 
ly, flash  her  glances  so  unremittingly,  manufac- 
'  ture  airs  so  elaborate,  graces  so  multitudinous. 
It  seems  to  me  that  she  might,  by  merely  sit- 
ting quietly  at  his  side,  saying  little  and  looking 
less,  get  nigher  his  heart.  I  have  seen  in  his 
fage  a  far  different  expression  from  that  which 
hardens  it  now  while  she  is  so  vivaciously  ac- 
costing him  ;  but  then  it  came  of  itself ;  it  was 
not  elicited  by  meretricious  arts  and  calculated 
manceuvers  ;  and  one  had  but  to  accept  it — to 
answer  what  he  asked,  without  pretension,  to 
address  him,  when  needful,  without  grimace — 
and  it  increased,  and  grew  kinder  and  more  ge- 
nial, and  warmed  one  like  a  fostering  sunbeam. 
How  will  she  manage  to  please  him  when  they 
are  married?  I  do  not  think  she  will  manage 
it ;  and  y#t  it  might  be  managed  ;  and  his  wife 
might,  I  verily  believe,  be  the  very  happiest 
woman  the  sun  shines  on."  ♦ 

I  have  not  yet  said  any  thing  condemnatory 
of  Mr.  Rochester's  project  of  marrying  for  in- 
terest and  connections.  It  surprised  me  when 
I  first  discovered  that  such  was  his  intention  ,  I 
had  thought  him  a  man  unlikely  to  be  influenced 
by  motives  so  commonplace  in  his  choice  of  a 
wife  ;  but  the  longer  I  considered  the  position, 
education,  &c.,  of  the  parties,  the  less  I  fell 
justified  in  judging  and  blaming  either  him  or 


Miss  Ingram,  for  acting  in  conformity  to  ideas 
and  principles  instilled  into  them,  doubtless, 
from  their  childhood.  All  their  class  held  these 
principles:  I  supposed,  then,  they  had  reasons 
for  holding  them  such  as  I  could  not  fathom. 
It  seemed  to  me  that,  were  I  a  gentleman  like 
him,  I  would  take  to  my  bosom  only  such  a 
wife  as  I  could  love  ;  but  the  very  obviousness 
of  the  advantages  to  the  husband's  own  hap- 
piness, offered  by  this  plan,  convinced  me  that 
there  must  be  arguments  against  its  general 
adoption  of  which  I  was  quite  ignorant,  other- 
wise I\felt  sure  all  the  world  would  act  as  E 
wished  to  act. 

But  in  other  points,  as  well  as  this,  I  was 
growing  very  lenient  to  my  master  :  I  was  for- 
getting all  his  faults,  for  which  I  had  once  kept 
a  sharp  look-out.  It  had  formerly  been  my  en- 
deavor to  study  all  sides  of  his  character — to 
take  the  bad  with  the  good,  and,  from  the  just 
weighing  of  both,  to  form  an  equitable  judg- 
ment. Now  I  saw  no  bad.  The  sarcasm  that 
had  repelled,  the  harshness  that  had  startled 
me  once,  were  only  like  keen  condiments  in  a 
choice  dish — their  presence  m«s  pungent,  but 
their  absence  would  be  felt  as  comparatively  in- 
sipid. And  as  for  the  vague  something — was 
it  a  sinister  or  a  sorrowful,  a  designing  or  a 
desponding  expression  1 — that  opened  upon  a 
careful  observer,  now  and  then,  in  his  eye,  and 
closed  again  before  one  could  fathom  the  strange 
depth  partially  disclosed  ;  that  something  which 
used  to  make  me  fear  and  shrink,  as  if  I  had 
been  wandering  among  volcanic-looking  hills, 
and  had  suddenly  felt  the  ground  quiver  and 
seen  it  gape  ;  that  something  I,  at  intervals,  be- 
held still,  and  with  throbbing  heart,  but  not 
with  palsied  nerves.  Instead  of  wishing  to 
shun,  I  longed  only  to  dare,  to  divine  it ;  and  I 
thought  Miss  Ingram  happy,  because  one  day 
she  might  look  into  the  abyss  at  her  leisure,  ex- 
plore its  secrets,  and  analyze  their  nature. 

Meantime,  while  I  thought  only  of  my  mas- 
ter and  his  future  bride — saw  only  them,  heard 
only  their  discourse,  and  considered  only  their 
movements  of  importance — the  rest  of  the  party 
were  occupied  with  their  own  separate  interests 
and  pleasures.  The  ladies  Lynn  and  Ingram 
continued  to  consort  in  solemn  conferences  ; 
where  they  nodded  their  two  turbans  at  each 
other,  and  held  up  their  four  hands  in  confront- 
ing gestures  of  surprise,  or  mystery,  or  horror, 
according  to  the  theme  on  which  their  gossip 
ran,  like.a  pair  of  magnified  puppets.  Mild  Mrs. 
Dent  talked  with  good-natured  Mrs.  Eshton  ; 
and  the  two  sometimes  bestowed  a  courteous 
word  or  smile  on  me.  Sir  George  Lynn,  Colo- 
nel Dent,  and  Mr.  Eshton,  discussed  politics,  or 
county  affairs,  or  justice  business.  Lord  Ingram 
flirted  with  Amy  Eshton  ;  Louisa  played  and 
sang  to  and  with  one  of  the  Messrs.  Lynn  ;  and 
Mary  Ingram  listened  languidly  to  the  gallant 
speeches  of  the  other.  Sometimes  all,  as  with 
one  consent,  suspended  their  by-play  to  observe 
and  listen  to  the  principal  actors  ;  for,  afler  all, 
Mr.  Rochester,  and,  because  closely  connected 
with  him.  Miss  Ingram,  were  the  life  and  soul 
of  the  party.  If  he  were  absent  from  the  room 
an  hour,  a  perceptible  dullness  seemed  to  steal 
over  the  spirits  of  his  guests  ;  and  his  re-en- 
trance was  sure  to  give  a  fresh  impulse  to  the 
vivacity  of  conversation         r 


JANE  EYRE. 


■    73' 


The  want  of  his  animating  influence  appear- 
ed to  be  peculiarly  fell  one  day  that  he  had 
been  summoned  to  Millcote  on  business,  and 
was  not  likely  to  return  till  late.  The  after- 
noon was  wet ;  a  walk  the  party  had  proposed 
10  take  to  see  a  gipsy  camp,  lately  pitched  on 
a  common  beyond  Hay,  was  consequently  de- 
ferred. Some  of  the  gentlemen  were  gone  to 
the  stables  ;  the  younger  ones,  together  with 
the  younger  ladies,  were  playing  billiards  in  the 
billiard-room.  The  dowagers  Ingram  and  Lynn 
sought  solace  in  a  quiet  game  at  cards.  Blanche 
Ingram,  after  having  repelled,  by  supercilious 
taciturnity,  some  efforts  of  Mrs.  Dent  and  Mrs. 
Eshton  to  draw  her  into  conversation,  had  first 
murmured  over  some  sentimental  tunes  and 
airs  on  the  piano,  and  then,  having  fetched  a 
novel  from  the  library,  had  flung  herself  in 
haughty  listlessness  on  a  sofa,  and  prepared  to 
beguile,  by  the  spell  of  fiction,  the  tedious  hours 
of  absence.  The  room  and  the  house  were  si- 
lent ;  only  now  and  then  the  merriment  of  the 
billiard  players  was  heard  from  above. 

It  was  verging  on  dusk,  and  the  clock  had  al- 
ready given  warning  of  the  hour  to  dress  for 
dinner,  when  little  Ad^le,  who  knelt  by  me  in 
the  drawing-room  window-seat,  exclaimed  : 
"  Voila  Monsieur  Rochester,  qui  revient !" 
I  turned,  and  Miss  Ingram  darted  forward 
from  her  sofa .-  the  others,  loo,  looked  up  from 
their  several  occupations ;  for,  at  the  same  time, 
a  crunching  of  wheels,  and  a  splashing  tramp 
of  horse-hoofs  became  audible  on  the  wet  grav- 
el.    A  post-chaise  was  approaching. 

"  What  can  possess  him  to  come  home  in 
that  style  V'  said  Miss  Ingram.  "  He  rode 
Mesrour  (the  black  horse),  did  he  not,  when  he 
went  out  1  and  Pilot  was  with  him.  What  has 
he  done  with  the  animals  V 

As  she  said  this,  she  approached  her  tall  per- 
son and  ample  garments  so  near  the  window, 
that  I  was  obliged  to  bend  back  almost  to  the 
breaking  of  my  spine  :  in  her  eagerness  she  did 
not  observe  me  at  first,  but  when  she  did,  she 
curled  her  lip  and  moved  to  another  casement. 
The  post-chaise  stopped ;  the  driver  rang  the 
door-bell,  and  a  gentleman  alighted,  attired  in 
traveling  garb  ;  but  it  was  not  Mr.  Rochester  ; 
it  was  a  tall,  fashionable-looking  man,  a  stranger. 
"Provoking!"  exclaimed  Miss  Ingram  :  "you 
tiresome  monkey  !"  (apostrophizing  Ad^le), 
"  who  perched  you  up  in  the  window  to  give 
false  intelligence  V'  and  she  cast  on  me  an  angry 
glance,  as  if  I  were  in  fault. 

Some  parleying  was  audible  in  the  hall,  and 
soon  the  new-comer  entered.  He  bowed  to 
Lady  Ingram,  as  deeming  her  the  eldest  lady 
present. 

"  It  appears  I  come  at  an  inopportune  time, 
madam,"  said  he,  "  when  my  friend,  Mr.  Roch- 
ester, is  from  home  ;  but  I  arrive  from  a  long 
journey,  and  I  think  I  may  presume  so  far  on 
old  and  intimate  acquaintance  as  to  install  my- 
self here  till  he  returns." 

His  manner  was  polite  ;  his  accent,  in  speak- 
ing, struck  me  as  being  somewhat  unusual — not 
precisely  foreign,  but  still  not  altogether  En- 
glish ;  his  age  might  be  about  Mr.  Rochester's, 
between  thirty  and  forty  ;  his  complexion  was 
singularly  sallow :  otherwise  he  was  a  fine- 
looking  man,  at  first  sight  especially.  On  closer 
examination,  you  detected  something  in  his  face 


that  displeased,  or,  rather,  that  failed  to  please. 
His  features  were  regular,  but  too  relaxed  ;  his 
eye  was  large  and  well  cut,  but  the  life  looking 
out  o?  it  was  a  tame,  vacant  life,  at  least  so  I  »■ 
thought. 

The  sound  of  the  dressing-bell  dispersed  the 
party.  It  was  not  till  after  dinner  that  I  saw 
him  again  ;  he  then  seemed  quite  at  his  ease. 
But  I  liked  his  physiognomy  even  less  than  be- 
fore ;  it  struck  me  as  being,  at  the  same  time, 
unsettled  and  inanimate.  His  eye  wandered, 
and  had  no  meaning  in  its  wandering  ;  this  gave 
him  an  odd  look,  such  as  I  never  remembered 
to  have  seen.  For  a  handsome  and  not  an  un- 
amiable-looking  man,  he  repelled  me  exceed- 
ingly ;  there  was  no  power  in  that  smooth-skin- 
ned face  of  a  full  oval  shape  ;  no  firmness  in 
that  aquiline  nose  and  small,  cherry  mouth  ; 
there  was  no  thought  on  the  low,  even  fore- 
head ;  no  command  in  that  blank,  brown  eye. 

As  I  sat  in  my  usual  nook,  and  looked  at  him 
with  the  light  of  the  girandoles  on  the  mantle- 
piece  beaming  full  over  him — for  he  occupied 
an  arm-chair,  drawn  close  to  the  fire,  and  kept 
shrinking  still  nearer,  as  if  he  were  cold — I 
compared  him  with  Mr.  Aochester.,  I  think 
(with  deference  be  it  spoken)  the  contrast  could 
not  be  much  greater  between  a  sleek  gander 
and  a  fierce  falcon  :  between  a  meek  sheep  and 
the  rough  coated  keen-eyed  dog,  its  guardian. 

He  had  spoken  of  Mr.  Rochester  as  an  old 
friend.  A  curious  friendship  theirs  must  have 
been  :  a  pointed  illustration,  indeed,  of  the  old 
adage  that  "extremes  meet." 

Two  or  three  of  the  gentlemen  sat  near  him, 
and  I  caught  at  times  scraps  of  their  conversa- 
tion across  the  room.  At  first  I  could  not  make 
much  sense  of  what  I  heard  ;  for  the  discourse 
of  Louisa  Eshton  and  Mary  Ingram,  who  sat 
nearer  to  me,  confused  the  fragmentary  sen- 
tences that  reached  me  at  intervals.  These 
last  were  discussing  the  stranger  ;  they  both 
called  him  "  a  beautiful  man."  Louisa  said  he 
was  "a  love  of  a  creature,"  and  she  "adored 
him;"  and  Mary  instanced  his  "pretty  little 
mouth,  and  nice  nose,"  as  her  ideal  of  the 
charming. 

"And  what  a  sweet-tempered  forehead  ho- 
has  !"  cried  Louisa  ;  "  so  smooth — none  of  those 
frowning  irregularities  I  dislike  so  much  ;  and 
such  a  placid  eye  and  smile  !" 

And  then,  to  my  great  relief,  Mr.  Henry  Lyna 
summoned  them,  to  the  other  side  of  the  room, 
to  settle  some  point  about  the  deferred  excur- 
sion to  Hay  Common. 

I  was  now  able  to  concentrate  my  attention 
on  the  group  by  the  fire,  and  I  presently  gath- 
ered that  the  new-comer  was  called  Mr.  Ma- 
son ;  then  I  learned  that  he  was  but  just  arrived 
in  England,-and  that  he  came  froni  some  hot 
country,  which  was  the  reason,  doubtless,  hia 
face  was  so  sallow,  and  that  he  sat  so  near  the 
hearth,  and  wore  a  surtout  in  the  house.  Pres- 
ently the  words  Jamaica,  Kingston,  Spanish 
Town,  indicated  the  West  Indies  as  his  resi- 
dence ;  and  it  was  with  no  little  surprise  I 
gathered,  ere  long,  that  he  had  there  first,  seen 
and  become  acquainted  with  Mr.  Rochester. 
He  spoke  of  his  friend's  dislike  of  the  burning 
heats,  the  hurricanes,  and  rainy  seasons  of 
that  region.  I  knew  Mr.  Rochester  had  been 
a  traveler;   Mrs.  Fairfax  had  said  so;   but  1 


94 


JANE  EYRE. 


thought  the  contit>ent  of  Europe  had  bounded 
his  wanderings;  till  now  I  had  never  heard  a 
Lint  given  of  visits  to  more  distant  shores. 

I  was  pondering  these  things,  when  at  inci- 
dent, and  a  somewhat  unexpected  one,  broke 
the  thread  of  my  musings.  Mr.  Mason,  sliiver- 
tng  as  some  one  chanced  to  open  the  door,  asked 
for  more  coal  to  be  put  on  the  fire,  which  had 
hurned  out  its  flame,  though  its  mass  of  cinder 
still  shone  hot  and  red.  The  footman  who 
brought  the  coal,  in  going  out,  stopped  near  Mr. 
Eshton's  chair,  and  said  snmeihing  to  him  in  a 
low  voice,  of  which  I  heard  (mly  the  words, 
•'old  woman" — "quite  troutilesoirie." 

"Tell  her  she  shall  be  put  in  the  stocks,  if 
she  docs  not  take  herself  ofT,"  replied  the  mag- 
istrate. 

"No,  stop!"  interrupted  Colonel  Dent. 
"Don't  send  her  away,  Eshton ;  we  might 
turn  the  thing  to  account — better  consult  the 
ladies."  And  speaking  aloud,  he  continued, 
"Ladies,  you  talked  of  going  to  Hay  Common 
to  visit  the  gipsy  camp;  Sam,  here,  says  that 
one  of  the  old  Mother  Bunches  is  in  ihe  serv- 
ants* hail  at  this  moment,  and  insists  upon  be- 
ing brought  in  before  'the  quality,'  to  tell  them 
their  fortunes.     Would  you  like  to  see  herl" 

"Surely,  colonel,  cried  Lady  Ingram,  "you 
would  not  encourage  such  a  low  impostor! 
Dismiss  her,  by  all  means,  at  onceV 

"  But  I  can  not  persuade  her  to  go  away,  my 
lady,"  said  the  footman  ;  "  nor  can  any  of  the 
servants ;  Mrs.  Fairfax  is  with  her  just  now, 
entreating  her-to  be  gone  ;  but  she  has  taken  a 
chair  in  the  chimney-corner,  and  says  nothing 
shall  stir  her  from  it  till  she  gets  leave  to  come 
in  here." 

"  What  does  she  wantl"  asked  Mrs.  Eshlon. 

"  '  To  tell  the  gentry  their  fortunes,'  she  says, 
ma'am ;  and  she  swears  she  must  and  will  do 
it." 

"  What  is  she  like  V  inquired  the  misses  Esh- 
ton,  in  a  breath. 

"A  shockingly  ugly  old  creature,  miss ;  almost 
as  black  as  a  crock." 

"  Why,  she's  a  real  sorceress  !"  cried  Fred- 
eric Lynn.     "  Let  us  have  her  in.  of  course." 

"  To  be  sure,"  rejoined  his  brother ;  "  it 
would  be  a  thousand  pities  to  throw  away  such 
a  chance  of  fun." 

"  My  dear  boys,  what  are  yoii  thinking 
about  I"  exclaimed  Lady  Lynn. 

"  I  can  not  possibly  countenance  any  such  in- 
consistent proceeding,"  chimed  in  the  Dowager 
Ingram. 

"Indeed,  mamma,  but  you  can — and  will," 
pronounced  the  haughty  voice  of  Blanche,  as 
she  turned  round  on  the  piano-stool,  whwe  till 
now  she  had  sat  silent,  apparently  examming 
sundry  sheets  of  music.  "  I  have  a  curiosity  to 
hear  my  fortune  told  ;  therefore,  Sam,  order 
the  beldame  forward." 

"My  darling  Blanche!  recollect — " 

"I  do — I  recollect  all  you  can  suggest;  and 
I  must  have  my  will^— quick,  Sam  !" 

"  Yes— yes — yes  !"'  cried  all  the  juveniles, 
both  ladies  and  gentlemen.  "Let  her  come — 
it  will  be  excellent  sport!" 

The  footman  stdl  lingered.  "  She  looks  such 
a  rough  one,"  said  he. 

"  Go  !"  ejaculated  Miss  Ingram,  and  the  man 
went. 


Excitement  instantly  seized  ihe  w  hole  party ; 
a  running  fire  of  raillery  and  jests  was  proceed- 
ing when  Sam  returned. 

'•  She  won't  come  now,"  said  he.  "  She  saya 
it's  not  her  mission  to  appear  before  the  '  vulgar 
herd'  (them's  her  words).  I  must  show  her 
into  a  room  by  herself,  and  then  those  who 
Wish  to  consult  her  must  go  to  her  one  by 
one." 

"  You  see  now,  my  queenly  Blanche,"  began 
Lndy  Ingram,  "  she  encroaches.  Be  advised, 
my  angel-girl  — and — " 

"  Show  her  into. the  library,  of  course,"  cut 
in  the  "  angel  girl."  "It  is  not  my  mission  to 
listen  to  her  before  the  vulgar  herd  either;  I 
mean  to  have  her  all  to  myself.  Is  there  a  fire 
in  the  library  1" 

"  Y'es,  ma'am — hut  she  looks  such  a  tinkler." 

"  f'ease  that  chatter,  blockhead !  and  do  my 
bidding." 

Again  Sam  vanished  ;  and  mystery,  anima- 
tion, ex()ectation  rose  to  full  flow  once  more. 

"  She's  ready  now,"  said  the  footman  as  he 
reappeared.  "  She  wishes  to  know  who  will 
be  her  first  visiior." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  just  look  in  upon  her 
before  any  of  the  ladies  go,"  said  Colonel  Dent. 
Tell  her,  Sam,  a  gentleman  is  coming." 

Sam  went  and  returned. 

"  She  says,  sir,  that  she'll  have  no  gentle- 
men ;  they  need  not  trouble  themselves  to  come 
near  her ;  nor,"  he  added,  with  difficulty  sup- 
pressing a  titter,  "  any  ladies  either,  except  the 
young  and  single." 

"  By  Jove,  she  has  taste  !"  exclaimed  Henry 
Lynn. 

Miss  Ingram  rose  solemnly,  "  I  go  first,"  she 
said,  in  a  tone  which  might  have  befitted  the 
leader  of  a  forlorn  hope,  mounting  a  breach  in 
the  van  of  his  men. 

"  Oh,  my  best !  oh,  my  dearest !  pause — re 
fleet !"  was  her  mamma's  cry  ;  but  she  swept 
past  her  in  stately  silence,  passed  through  the 
door  which  Colonel  Dent  held  open,  and  we 
heard  her  enter  the  library. 

A  comparative  silence  ensued.  Lady  Ingram 
thought  it  "lecas"  to  wring  her  hands,  which 
she  did  accordingly.  Miss  Mary  declared  she 
felt,  for  her  part,  she  never  dared  venture.  Amy 
and  Louisa  Eshton  tittered  under  their  breath, 
and  looked  a  little  frightened. 

The  minutes  passed  very  slowly  —  fifteen 
were  counted  before  the  library-door  again 
opened.  Miss  Ingram  returned  to  us  through 
the  arch. 

Would  she  laugh  ?  Would  she  take  it  as  « 
jokel  All  eyes  met  her  with  a  glance  of  eager 
curiosity,  and  slie  met  ail  eyes  with  one  of  re- 
hulT  and  coldness;  she  looked  neither  flurried 
nor  merry  :  she  walked  stiffly  to  her  scat,  and 
look  it  in  silence. 

"  Well,  Blanche  ?"  said  Lord  Ingram. 

"What  did  she  say,  sister  1"  asked  Mary. 

"  What  did  you  tiiink  1  How  do  you  feel  ?  Is 
she  a  real  fortune-teller,"  demanded  the  misses 
Eshton. 

"  Now,  now,  good  people,"  returned  Miss  In- 
gram, "don't  press  upon  me.  Really  your  or- 
gans  of  wonder  and  credulity  are  easily  excited  ; 
>iiu  seem  by  the  importance  you  all— my  good 
mamma  included — ascribe  to  this  matter  abso- 
lutely to  believe  we  have  a  genuine  witch  in  the 


JANE  EYRE. 


79 


hOQse,  who  is  m  close  alliance  with  the  old  gen- 
tleman. I  have  seen  a  gipsy  vagabond  ;  she  has 
practiced  in  hackneyed  fashion  the  science  of 
palmistry,  and  told  nne  what  such  people  usually 
tell.  My  whim  is  gratified  ;  and  now,  I  think, 
Mr.  Eshton  will  do  well  to  put  the  hag  in  the 
stocks  to-morrow  morning,  as  he  threatened."' 

Miss  Ingram  took  a  book,  leaned  hack  in  her 
chair,  and  so  declined  further  conversation.  I 
watched  her  for  nearly  half  an  hour — during  all 
that  time  she  never  turned  a  page,  and  her  face 
grew  momently  darker,  more  dissatisfied,  and 
more  sourly  expressive  of  disappointment.  She 
had  obviously  not  heard  any  thing  to  her  ad- 
vantage ;  and  it  seemed  to  me,  from  her  pro- 
longed fit  of  gloom  and  taciturnity,  that  she 
herself,  notwithstanding  her  professed  indiffer- 
ence, attached  undue  importance  to  whatever 
revelations  had  been  made  her. 

Meantime,  Mary  Ingram,  Amy  and  Louisa 
Eshton  declared  they  dared  not  go  alone  ;  and 
yet  they  all  wished  to  go.  A  negotiation  was 
opened  through  the  medium  of  the  embassador, 
Sam  ;  and  after  much  pacing  to  and  fro,  till,  I 
think,  the  said  Sam's  calves  must  have  ached 
with  the  exercise,  permission  was  at  last,  with 
great  difficully,  extorted  from  the  rigorous  sibyl, 
for  the  three  to  wail  upon  her  in  a  budy. 

Their  visit  was  not  so  still  as  Miss  Ingram's 
had  been  ;  we  heard  hysterical  giggling  and 
little  shrieks  proceeding  from  the  library;  and 
at  the  end  of  about  twenty  mmutes  they  burst 
the  door  open,  and  came  running  across  the 
hall,  as  if  they  were  half  scared  out  of  their 
wits. 

"  I'm  sure  she  is  something  not  right !"  they 
cried,  one  and  all.  "  She  told  us  such  things  ! 
She  knows  all  about  us  !"  and  they  sunk  breath- 
less into  the  various  seats  the  gentlemen  has- 
tened to  bring  them. 

Pressed  for  furtherexplanation,  they  declared 
she  had  told  them  of  things  they  had  said  and 
done  when  they  were  mere  children  ;  described 
books  and  ornaments  they  had  in  their  boudoirs 
at  home  ;  keepsakes  that  different  relations  had 
presented  to  them.  They  affirmed  that  she  had 
even  divmed  their  thoughts,  and  had  whispered 
in  the  ear  of  each  the  name  of  the  person  she 
liked  best  in  the  world,  and  informed  them  of 
what  they  most  wished  for. 

Here  the  gentlemen  interposed  with  earnest 
petitions  to  be  further  enlightened  on  these  two 
last-named  points;  but  they  got  only  blushes, 
ejaculations,  tremors,  and  titters  in  return  for 
their  importunity.  The  matrons,  meantime, 
offered  vinaigrettes  and  wielded  fans;  and 
again  and  again  reiterated  the  expression  of 
their  concern  that  their  warning  had  not  been 
taken  in  time  ;  and  the  elder  gentlemen  laughed, 
and  the  younger  urged  their  services  on  the 
agitated  fair  ones. 

In  the  midst  of  the  tumult,  and  while  my 
eyes  and  ears  were  fully  engaged  in  the  scene 
before  me,  I  heard  a  hem  close  at  my  elbow :  I 
turned  and  saw  Sam. 

"If  you  please,  miss,  the  gipsy  declares  that 
there  is  another  young  single  lady  in  the  room 
who  has  not  been  to  her  yet,  and  she  swears 
.she  will  not  go  till  she  has  seen  ail.  I  thought 
it  must  be  you ;  there  is  no  one  else  for  it. 
What  shall  1  tell  her'" 

"Ob,  I  will  go  by  all  means,"  I  answered ; 


and  I  was  glad  of  the  unexpected  opportnnity  to 
gratify  my  much-excited  curiosity.  I  slipped 
out  of  the  room,  unobserved  by  any  eye,  for  the 
company  were  gaiheied  in  one  mass  about  the 
trembling  trio  just  returned,  and  I  closed  lt)p 
door  quietly  behind  me. 

"If  you  like,  cniss.  said  Sam,  "I'll  wait  in 
the  hall  for  you  ;  and  if  she  frightens  you,  just 
call  and  I'll  come  in." 

"  No,  Sam,  return  to  the  kitchen — I  am  not 
in  the  least  afraid."  Nor  was  I ;  but  I  was  a 
good  deal  interested  and  excited. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  library  looked  tranquil  enough  as  I  en- 
tered it,  and  the  sihyl — if  sibyl  she  were — was 
seated  snugly  enough  in  an  easy-chair  at  iho 
chimney-corner.  She  had  on  a  red  cloak  and 
a  black  bonnet,  or,  rather,  a  hroad-brimnied 
gipsy  hal,  tied  down  with  a  striped  handker- 
chief under  her  chin.  An  extinguished  candle 
stood  on  the  table;  she  was  bending  over  tlie 
fire,  and  seemed  reading  in  a  iitile  black  book, 
like  a  prayer-book,  by  the  light  of  the  blaze; 
she  muttered  the  words  to  herself,  as  most  old 
women  do,  while  she  read  She  did  not  desist 
immediately  on  my  entrance;  it  appeared  she 
wished  to  finish  a  paragraph. 

I  stood  on  the  rug  and  warmed  my  hands, 
which  were  rather  cold  with  silling  at  a  distance 
from  the  drawing-room  fire.  I  felt  now  as  com- 
posed as  ever  I  did  in  my  life  ;  there  was  noth- 
ing, indeed,  in  the  gipsy's  appearance  to  trouble 
one's  calm.  She  shut  her  book  and  slowly 
looked  up ;  her  hat-brim  partially  shaded  her 
face,  yet  I  could  see,  as  she  raised  it,  that  it 
was  a  strange  one.  It  looked  all  brown  and 
black ;  elf-locks  bristled  out  from  beneath  a 
while  band  which  passed  under  her  chin,  and 
came  half  over  her  cheeks,  or,  rather,  jaws  ;  her 
eye  confronted  me  at  once  with  a  bold  and  di- 
rect gaze. 

"Well,  and  you  want  your  fortune  told!" 
she  said  in  a  voice  as  decided  as  her  glance,  as 
harsh  as  her  features. 

"  I  don't  care  about  it,  mother ;  you  may 
please  yourself;  but  I  ought  to  warn  you,  I 
have  no  faith." 

"It's  like  your  impudence  to  say  soj  I  ex- 
pected it  of  you  ;  I  heard  it  in  your  step  as  you 
crossed  the  threshold." 

"Did  you!     You've  a  quick  ear." 

"  I  have — and  a  quick  eye,  and  a  quick  brain." 

"  You  need  them  all  in  your  trade." 

"I  do;  especially  when  I've  customers  like 
you  to  deal  with.     Why  don't  you  tremble  1" 

"I'm  not  cold." 

"  Why  don't  you  turn  pale!" 

"I  am  not  sick." 

"  Why  don't  you  consult  my  art!" 

"  I'm  not  silly." 

The  old  crone  "  nichercd"  a  laugh  under  her 
bonnet  and  bandage ;  she  then  drew  out  a 
short,  black -pipe,  anri,  lightinsr  it,  began  to 
smoke.  Having  indulged  a  while  in  this  seda- 
tive, she  raised  her  bent  budy.  look  the  pipe 
from  her  lips,  and.  while  gazing  steadily  al  iho 
fire,  said,  very  deliberately  : 

"  You  are  cold  ;  you  are  sick  ;  and  you  are 
silly." 


7C 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Prove  it,"  I  rejoined. 

"  I  will,  in  few  words.  You  are  cold  because 
you  are  alone  ;  no  contact  strikes  the  fire  from 
you  that  is  in  you  ;  you  are  sick,  because  the 
best  of  feelings,  the  highest  and  the  sweetest 
given  to  man,  keeps  far  away  from  you ;  you 
are  silly,  because,  suffer  as  you  may,  you  will 
not  beckon  it  to  approach,  nor  will  you  stir  one 
step  to  meet  it  where  it  awaits  you." 

She  again  put  her  short,  black  pipe  to  her 
lips,  and  renewed  her  smoking  with  vigor. 

"  You  might  say  all  that  to  almost  any  one 
who  you  knew  lived  as  a  solitary  dependent  in 
a  great  house." 

"  I  might  say  it  to  almost  any  one  ;  but  would 
it  be  true  of  almost  any  onel" 
"  In  my  circumstances." 
"Yes;  just  so,  in  your  circumstances:  but 
'  find  me  another  precisely  placed  as  you  are." 
"  It  would  be  easy  to  find  you  thousands." 
"You  could  scarcely  find  me  one.     If  you 
knew  it,  you  are  peculiarly  situated  :  very  near 
happiness  ;  yes  ;  within  reach  of  it.     The  ma- 
terials are  all  prepared  ;   there  only  wants  a 
movement  to  combine  them.    Chance  laid  them 
somewhat  apart ;  let  them  be  once  approached 
and  bliss  results." 

"  I  don't  understand  enigmas.  I  never  could 
guess  a  riddle  in  my  life." 

"  If  you  wish  me  to  speak  more  plainly,  show 
me  your  palm." 

"  And  I  must  cross  it  with  silver,  I  suppose  V 
"To  be  sure." 

I  gave  her  a  shilling ;  she  put  it*  into  an  old 
stocking-foot  which  she  took  out  of  her  pocket, 
and  having  tied  it  round  and  returned  it,  she 
lold  me  to  hold  out  my  hand.  I  did.  She  ap- 
jroaqhed  her  face  to  the  palm,  and  pored  over 
t  without  touching  it. 

"It  is  too  fine,"  said  she.      "I  can  make 
lOthing  of  such  a  hand  as  that ;  almost  with- 
»ut  lines  ;  besides,  what  is  in  a  palm  1    Destiny 
6  not  written  there." 
"  I  believe  you,"  said  I. 
"  No,"  she  continued,  "  it  is  in  the  face  ;  on 
lie  forehead,  about  the  eyes,  in  the  eyes  Ihem- 
aelves,  in  the  lines  of  the  mouth.     Kneel,  and 
nft  up  your  head."   ■ 

"Ah  !  Now  you  are  coming  to  reality,"  I 
Baid,  as  I  obeyed  her.  "  I  shall  begin  to  put 
tome  faith  in  you  presently." 

I  knelt  within  half  a  yard  of  her.  She  stirred 
the  fire,  so  that  a  ripple  of  light  broke  from  the 
disturbed  coal ;  the  glare,  however,  as  she  sat, 
only  threw  her  face  into  deeper  shadow  ;  mine, 
it  illumined. 

"I  wonder  with  what  feelings  you  came  to 
me  to-night,"  she  said,  when  she  had  examined 
me  a  while.  "  I  wonder  what  thoughts  are  busy 
in  your  heart  during  all  the  hours  you  sit  in 
yonder  room  with  the  fine  people  flitting  before 
you  like  shapes  in  a  magic-lantern  :  just  as  lit- 
tle sympathetic  communion  passing  between 
you  and  them  as  if  they  were  really  mere 
shadows  of  human  forms  and  not  the  actual 
snl)iiance." 

"  I  feel  tired  often,  sleepy  sometimes  ;  but 
aeldom  sad." 

"  Then  you  have  some  secret  hope  to  buoy 
you  up  and  please  you  with  whispers  of  the 
future  1" 
I     "Not  I       The  utmost  I  hope   is,  to  save 


money  enough  out  of  my  earnings  to  set  up 
a  school  some  day  in  a  little  house  rented  by 
myself." 

"  A  mean  nutriment  for  the  spirit  to  exist 
on  :  and  sitting  in  that  window-seat  (you  see 
I  know  your  habits) — " 

"  You  have  learned  them  from  *the  ser- 
vants." 

"  Ah  !     You  think  yourself  sharp.     Well — 
perhaps  I  have  :  to  speak  truth,  I  have  an  ac- 
quaintance with  one  of  them — Mrs.  Poole — " 
I  started  to  my  feet  when  I  heard  the  name. 
''  You  have — have  you  1"  thought  I ;  "  there 
is  diablerie  in  the  business  after  all,  then  !" 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,"  continued  the  strange 
being ;  "  she's  a  safe  hand,  is  Mrs.  Poole  : 
close  and  quiet ;  any  one  may  repose  confi- 
dence in  her.  But,  as  I  was  saying  :  sitting 
in  that  window-seat,  do  you  think  of  nothing 
but  your  future  school  1  Have  you  no  present 
interest  in  any  of  the  company  who  occupy  the 
sofas  and  chairs  before  youl  Is  there  not  one 
face  you  study  V  One  figure  whose  movements 
you  follow  with,  at  least,  curiosity  1" 

"  I  like  to  observe  all  the  faces,  and  all  the 
figures." 

"  But  do  you  never  single  one  from  the  rest 
— or  it  may  be,  two?" 

"  I  do  frequently  ;  when  the  gestures  or  looks 
of  a  pair  seem  telling  a  tale  ;  it  amuses  me  to 
watch  them." 

"  What  tale  do  you  like  best  to  hear  V 
"  Oh,  I  have  not  much  choice  !     They  gener- 
ally run  on  the  same  theme — courtship ;  and 
promise  to  end  in  the  same  catastrophe — mar- 
riage." 

"  And  do  you  like  that  monotonous  theme  T' 
"  Positively  I  don't  care  about  it :  it  is  noth- 
ing to  me." 

"  Nothing  to  you  \  When  a  lady,  young  and 
full  of  life  and  health,  charming  with  beauty 
and  endowed  with  the  gifts  of  rank  and  for- 
tune, sits  and  smiles  in  the  eyes  of  a  gentleman 
vou — " 

"I  whati"     . 

"  You  know — and,  perhaps,  think  well  of." 
"  I  don't  know  the  gentlemen  here.  I  have 
scarcely  interchanged  a  syllable  with  «ne  of 
them  ;  and  as  to  thinking  well  of  them,  I  con- 
sider some  respectable  and  stately,  and  middle- 
aged,  and  others  young,  dashing,  handsome,  and 
lively ;  but  certainly  they  are  all  at  liberty  to 
be  the  recipients  of  whose  smiles  they  please, 
without  my  feeling  disposed  to  consider  the 
transaction  of  any  moment  to  me." 

"  You  don't  1^  now  the  gentlemen  here  1  Yoit 
have  not  exchanged  a  syllable  with  one  of 
them  1  Will  you  say  that  of  the  master  of  the 
housed" 

"  He  is  not  at  home." 

"A  profound  remark!  A  most  ingenious 
quibble  !  He  went  to  Millcote  this  morning, 
and  will  be  back  here  to-night,  or  to-morrow : 
does  that  circumstance  exclude  him  from  the 
list  of  your  acquaintance — blot  him,  as  it  were, 
out  of  existence  1" 

'•  No  ;  but  I  can  scarcely  see  what  Mr.  Roch- 
ester has  to  do  with  the  theme  you  had  intro- 
duced." 

"I  was  talking  of  ladies  smiling  in  the  eyes 
of  gentlemen  ;  and  of  late  so  many  smiles  have 
been  shed  into  Mr.  Rochester's  eyes>  that  they 


JANE  EYRE. 


77 


overflow  like  two  cups  filled  above  the  brim  ; 
have  you  never  remarked  that  V 

"Mr.  Rochester  has  a  right  to  enjoy  the 
society  of  his  guests." 

"  No  question  about  his  right :  but  have  you 
never  observed  that,  of  all  the  tales  told  here 
about  matrimony,  Mr.  Rochester  has  been 
favored  with  the  most  lively  and  the  most 
continuous  V 

"The  eagerness  of  a  listener  quickens  the 
tongue  of  a  narrator."  I  said  this  rather  to 
myself  than  to  the  gipsy  ;  whose  strange  talk, 
voice,  manner  had  by  this  time  wrapped  me 
in  a  kind  of  dream.  One  unexpected  sentence 
came  from  her  lips  after  another,  till  I  got  in- 
volved in  a  web  of  mystiftcation  ;  and  wonder- 
ed what  unseen  spirit  had  been  silting  for 
weeks  by  my  heart,  watching  its  workings,  and 
taking  record  of  every  pulse. 

"Eagerness  of  a  listener!''  repeated  she; 
"  yes  ;  Mr.  Rochester  has  sat  by  the  hour,  his 
ear  inclined  to  the  fascinating  lips  that  took 
such  delight  in  their  task  of  communicating ; 
and  Mr.  Rochester  was  so  willing  to  receive, 
and  looked  so  grateful  for  the  pastime  given 
him:  you  have  noticed  thisl" 

"  Grateful !  I  can  not  remember  detecting 
gratitude  in  his  face." 

"  Detecting  !  You  have  analyzed,  then. 
And  what  did  you  detect,  if  not  gratitude  1" 

I  said  nothing. 

"  You  have  seen  love  ;  have  you  not ! — and, 
looking  forward,  you  have  seen  him  married, 
and  beheld  his  bride  happy?' 

"  Humph  !  Not  exactly.  Your  witch's  skill 
is  rather  at  fault  sometimes." 

"What  the  devil  have  you  seen,  then  ?" 

"  Never  mind  :  I  came  here  to  inquire,  not 
to  confess.  Is  it  known  that  Mr.  Rochester  is 
to  be  married  1" 

"  Yes  ;  and  to  the  beautiful  Miss  Ingram." 

"  Shortly." 

"  Appearances  would  warrant  that  conclu- 
sion ;  and,  no  doubt  (though,  with  an  audacity 
that  wants  chastising  out  of  you,  you  seem  to 
question  it),  they  will  be  a  superlatively  happy 
pair.  He  must  love  such  a  handsome,  noble, 
witty,  accomplished  lady ;  and  probably  she 
loves  him  ;  or,  if  not  his  person,  at  least  his 
purse.  I  know  she  considers  the  Rochester 
estate  eligible  to  the  last  degree  ;  though  (God 
pardon  me  !)  I  told  her  something  on  that  point 
about  an  hour  ago,  which  made  her  look  won- 
drous grave  ;  the  corners  of  her  month  fell  half 
an  inch.  I  would  advise  her  black  a-viced  suitor 
to  look  out ;  if  another  comes,  v/ith  a  longer  or 
clearer  rent-roll,  he's  dished." 

"  But,  mother,  I  did  not  come  to  hear  Mr. 
Rochester's  fortune ;  I  came  to  hear  my  own, 
and  you  have  told  me  nothing  of  it." 

"  Your  fortune  is  yet  doubtful ;  when  I  ex- 
amined your  face,  one  trait  contradicted  another. 
Chance  has  meted  you  a  measure  of  happiness  ; 
that  I  know.  I  knew  it  before  I  came  here  this 
evening.  She  has  laid  it  carefully  on  one  side 
for  you ;  I  saw  her  do  it ;  it  depends  on  your- 
self to  stretch  out  your  hand,  and  take  it  up ; 
but  whether  you  will  do  so,  is  the  problem  I 
study.     Kneel  again  on  the  rug." 

"  Don't    keep    me  long — the   fire    scorches 


me. 


I  knelt ;  she  did  not  stoop  toward  me,  but  only 


gazed,  leaning  back  m  her  chair.     She  began 
muttering: 

"  The  flame  flickers  in  the  eye — the  eye 
shines  like  dew ;  it  looks  soft  and  full  of  feel- 
ing— it  smiles  at  my  jargon — it  is  susceptible  ; 
mipression  follows  impression  through  its  clear 
sphere  ;  when  it  ceases  to  smile,  it  is  sad — an 
unconscious  lassitude  weighs  on  the  lid,  that 
signifies  melancholy  resulting  from  loneliness; 
it  turns  from  me  ;  it  will  not  suffer  further 
scrutiny;  it  seems  to  deny,  by  a  mocking 
glance,  the  truth  of  the  discoveries  I  have 
already  made — to  disown  the  charge  both  of 
sensibility  and  chagrin  ;  its  pride  and  reserve 
only  confirm  me  in  my  opinion.  The  eye  i."? 
favorable. 

"  As  to  the  mouth,  it  delights  at  times  m 
laughter ;  it  is  disposed  to  impart  all  that  the 
brain  conceives,  though,  I  dare  say,  it  would 
be  silent  on  much  the  heart  experiences- 
Mobile  and  flexible,  it  was  never  intended  to 
be  compressed  in  the  eternal  silence  of  soli- 
tude ;  it  is  a  mouth  which  should  speak  much 
and  smile  often,  and  have  human  affection  for 
its  interlocutor.  That  feature,  too,  is  pro- 
pitious. 

"  I  see  no  enemy  to  a  fortunate  issue  but  in 
the  brow  ;  and  that  brow  professes  to  say — '  I 
can  live  alone,  if  self-respect  and  circum- 
stances require  me  so  to  do.  I  need  not  sell 
my  soul  to  buy  bliss.  I  have  an  inward  treas- 
ure, born  with  me,  which  can  keep  me  alive 
if  all  extraneous  delights  should  be  withheld, 
or  offered  only  at  a  price  I  can  not  aflord  to 
give.'  The  forehead  declares — 'Reason  sits 
firm  and  holds  the  reins,  and  she  will  not  let 
the  feelings  burst  away  and  hurry  her  to  wild 
chasms.  The  passions  may  rage  furiously, 
like  true  heathens,  as  they  are,  and  the  desires 
may  imagine  all  sorts  of  vain  things  ;  but  judg- 
ment shall  still  have  the  last  word  in  every  ar- 
gument, and  the  casting  vote  in  every  decision. 
Strong  wind,  earthquake,  shock,  and  fire  may 
pass  by,  I  shall  follow  the  guiding  but  of  that 
still  small  voice  which  interprets  the  dictates 
of  conscience.' 

"Well  said,  forehead  :  your  declaration  shall 
be  respected.  I  have  formed  my  plans — right 
plans  I  deem  them — and  in  them  I  have  attend- 
ed to  the  claims  of  conscience,  the  counsels  of 
reason.  I  know  how  soon  youth  would  fade, 
and  bloom  perish,  if,  in  the  cup  of  bliss  offer- 
ed, but  one  dreg  of  shame,  or  one  flavor  of 
remorse  were  detected  ;  and  I  do  not  want 
sacrifice,  sorrow,  dissolution — such  is.  not  my 
taste.  I  wish  to  foster,  not  to  blight — to  earn 
gratitude,  not  to  wring  tears  of  blood — no,  nor 
of  brine  ;  my  harvest  must  be  in  smiles,  in  en- 
dearments, in  sweet — that  will  do.  I  think  I 
rave  in  a  kind  of  exquisite  delirium.  I  should 
wish  now  to  protract  this  moment  ad  infinitum; 
but  I  dare  not.  So  far  I  have  governed  myself 
thoroughly.  I  have  acted  as  I  inwardly  swore  * 
I  would  act ;  but  farther  might  try  me  beyond 
my  strength.  Rise,  Miss  Eyre,  leave  me  ;  'the 
play  is  played  out.'  " 

Where  was  H  Did  I  wake  or  sleeps  Had 
I  been  dreaming?  _Did  I  dream  stilH  Th& 
old  woman's  voice  had  changed.  Her  accent, 
her  gesture,  and  all,  were  familiar  to  me  as  my 
own  face  in  the  glass — as  the  speech  of  my  own 
tongue.    I  got  up,  but  did  not  go.    I  looked;  I 


n 


JANE  EYRE. 


■tirred  the  fire,  and  I  looked  again ;  but  she 
drew  her  bonnet  and  her  bandage  closer  about 
her  face,  and  again  beckoned  me  to  depart. 
The  flame  illuminated  her  hand  stretched  out. 
Roused  now,  and  on  the  alert  for  discoveries, 
I  at  once  noticed  that  hand  ;  it  was  no  more  the 
withered  limb  of  eld  than  my  own  ;  it  was  a 
rounded,  supple  member,  with  smooth  fingers, 
symmetrically  turned  ;  a  broad  ring  flashed  on 
the  little  finger,  and,  stooping  forward,  I  looked 
at  it,  and  saw  a  gem  I  had  seen  a  hundred  times 
before.  Again  1  looked  at  the  face,  which  was 
no  longer  turned  from  me;  on  the  contrary,  the 
bonnet  was  defied,  the  bandage  displaced,  the 
head  advanced. 

"Well,  Jane,  do  you  know  meV  asked  the 
familiar  voice. 

"  Only  take  xtff  the  red  cloak,  sir,  and 
then—" 

"  But  the  string  is  in  a  knot — help  me." 

"Break  it,  sir." 

"  There,  then — '  Off,  ye  lendings !' "  And  Mr. 
Rochester  stepped  out  of  his  disguise. 

"Now,  sir,  what  a  strange  idea  !" 

"  But  well  carried  out.  eh  1     Don't  you  think 

BOl" 

••  With  the  ladies  you  must  have  managed 
well." 

"  But  not  with  you." 

"  You  did  not  act  the  character  of  a  gipsy 
with  me." 

"  What  character  did  I  act  1     My  own  1" 

"  No  ;  some  unaccountable  one.  In  short, 
I  believe  you  have  been  trying  to  draw  me 
out — or  in.  You  have  been  talking  nonsense 
to  make  me  talk  nonsense.  It  is  scarcely  fair, 
Bir." 

"Do  you  forgive  me,  JaneV 

"  I  can  not  tell  till  I  have  thought  it  all  over. 
If,  on  reflection,  I  find  I  have  fallen  into  no 
great  absurdity,  I  shall  try  to  forgive  you  ;  but 
it  was  not  right." 

"  Oh,  you  have  been  very  correct,  very  care- 
ful, very  sensible!" 

I  reflected,  and  thought,  on  the  whole,  I  had. 
It  was  a  comfort ;  but,  indeed,  I  had  been  on 
my  guard  almost  from  the  beginning  of  the  in- 
terview. Something  of  masquerade  I  suspect- 
ed. I  knew  gipsies  and  fortune-tellers  did  not 
express  themselves  as  this  seeming  old  woman 
had  expressed  herself;  besides,  I  had  noted  her 
feigned  voice — her  anxiety  to  conceal  her  fea- 
tures. But  my  mind  had  been  running  on 
Grace  Poole — that  living  enigma — that  mystery 
of  mysteries,  as  I  considered  her ;  I  liad  never 
thought  of  Mr.  Rochesterl 

^'Well,"  said  he,  "what  arc  you  musing 
about  ?  What  does  that  grave  smile  sig- 
nify 1" 

"  Wonder  and  self  congratulation,  sir.  I 
have  your  permission  to  retire,  now,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"  No ;  stay  a  moment,  and  tell  me  what 
the  people  in  the  drawing-room,  yonder,  are 
doing." 

"  Discussing  the  gipsy,  I  dare  say." 

"  Sit  do  wn,  sit  do  wn  !  Let  me  hear  what  they 
said  about  me." 

"I  had  better  not  stay  long,  sir;  it  must  be 
near  eleven  o'clock.  Oh  !  are  you  aware,  Mr. 
Rochester,  that  a  stranger  has  arrived  here 
since  you  left  this  morning  V 


"  A  stranger ! — no  ;  who  can  it  be  1  I  ex- 
pected no  one  ;  is  he  gone  V 

"  No ;  he  said  he  had  known  you  long,  and 
that  he  could  take  the  liberty  of  installing  him- 
self here  till  you  returned." 

"  The  devil  he  did  !    Did  he  give  his  name  I" 

"  His  name  is  Mason,  sir ;  and  he  comes  from 
the  West  Indies — from  Spanish  Town,  in  Ja- 
maica, I  think." 

Mr.  Rochester  was  standing  near  me  ;  he 
had  taken  my  hand,  as  if  to  lead  me  to  a  chair. 
As  I  spoke,  he  gave  my  wrist  a  convulsive  grasp ; 
the  smile  on  his  lip  froze — apparently  a  spasm 
caught  his  breath. 

"  Mason  ! — the  West  Indies  !"  he  said,  in  the 
tone  one  might  fancy  a  speaking  automaton  to 
enounce  its  single  words  ;  "  Mason  !  the  West 
Indies  !"  he  reiterated  ;  and  he  went  over  the 
syllables  three  times,  growing,  in  the  intervals  of 
speaking,  whiter  than  ashes  :  he  hardly  seemed 
to  know  what  he  was  doing. 

"  Do  you  feel  ill,  sir?"  I  inquired. 

"  Jane,  I've  got  a  blow  ;  I've  got  a  blow, 
Jane!"    He  staggered. 

"  Oh  !  lean  on  me,  sir." 

"Jane,  you  offered  me  your  shoulder  onoo 
before  ;  let  me  have  it  now." 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes  ;  and  my  arm." 

He  sat  down,  and  made  me  sit  beside  him. 
Holding  my  hand  in  both  of  his  own,  he  chafed 
it,  gazing  on  me,  at  the  same  time,  with  the 
most  troubled  and  dreary  look. 

"My  little  friend  !"  said  he,  "I  wish  I  were 
in  a  quiet  island  with  only  you,  and  trouble, 
and  danger,  and  hideous  recollections  removed 
from  me." 

"Can  I  help  you,  sirl  I'd  give  my  life  to 
serve  you." 

"Jane,  if  aid  is  wanted,  I'll  seek  it  at  your 
hands — I  promise  you  that." 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  tell  me  what  to  do — I'll 
try,  at  least,  to  do  it." 

"Fetch  me  now,  Jane,  a  glass  of  wine  from 
the  dining-room — they  will  be  at  supper  there ; 
and  tell  me  if  Mason  is  with  them,  and  what 
he  is  doing." 

I  went.  I  found  all  the  party  in  the  dining 
room  at  supper,  as  Mr.  Rochester  had  said ; 
they  were  not  seated  at  table — the  supper  was 
arranged  on  the  sideboard ;  each  had  taken 
what  he  chose,  and  they  stood  about,  here  and 
there,  in  groups,  their  plates  and  glasses  ia 
their  hands.  Every  one  seemed  in  high  glee ; 
laughter  and  conversation  were  general  and 
animated.  Mr.  Mason  stood  near  the  fire,  talk- 
ing to  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Dent,  and  appeared  as 
merry  as  any  of  them.  I  filled  a  wine-glass  (I 
saw  Miss  Ingram  watch  me  frowningly  as  1  did 
so  :  she  thought  I  was  taking  a  liberty,  I  dare 
say),  and  I  returned  to  the  library. 

Mr.  Rochester's  extreme  pallor  had  disap- 
peared, and  he  looked  once  more  firm  and  stern. 
He  took  the  glass  from  my  hand. 

"Here  is  your  health,  ministrant  spirit!" 
he  said :  he  swallowed  the  contents  and  returned 
it  to  me.     "  What  are  they  doing,  Jane  1" 

"  Laughing  and  talking,  sir." 

"They  don't  look  grave  and  mysterious,  as  if 
they  had  heard  something  strange?" 

"  Not  at  all ;  they  are  full  of  jests  aod 
gayety." 

"And  Mason  1" 


JANE  EYRE. 


79 


"He  was  laughing  too." 

"  If  all  these  people  came  in  a  body  and  spit 
at  me,  what  would  you  do,  Jane  1" 

"  Turn  them  out  of  the  room,  sir,  if  I  could." 

He  half  smiled.  "  But  if  I  were  to  go  to 
them,  and  they  only  looked  at  me  coldly,  an<l 
whispered  sneeringfy  among  each  oilier,  anil 
then  dropped  off  and  left  me  one  by  one,  what 
then  ?     Would  you  go  with  them  V 

"  I  rather  think  not.  sir ;  I  should  have  more 
pleasure  in  staying  with  you." 

"  To  comfort  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,  to  comfort  you,  as  well  as  I  could." 

"And  if  they  laid  you  under  a  ban  for  adher- 
ing to  me?"    . 

"I,  probably,  should  know  nothing  about 
their  ban  ;  and  if  I  did,  I  should  care  nothing 
about  it." 

"  Then,  you  could  dare  censure  for  my 
eakel" 

"  I  could  dare  it  for  the  sake  of  any  friend 
who  deserved  my  adherence,  as  you,  I  am  sure, 
do." 

"  Go  back  now  into  the  room  ;  step  quietly 
up  to  Mason,  and  whisper  in  his  ear  that  Mr. 
Rochester  is  come  and  wishes  to  see  him  ; 
Bhow  him  in  here,  and  then  leave  me." 

"Yes,  sir." 

I  did  his  behest.  The  company  all  stared  at 
me  as  I  passed  straight  among  them.  I  souglit 
Mr.  Mason,  delivered  the  message,  and  preced- 
ed him  from  the  room  :  I  ushered  him  into  the 
library,  and  then  I  went  up  stairs. 

At  a  late  hour,  after  I  had  been  in  bed  some 
time,  I  heard  the  visitors  repair  to  their  cham- 
bers :  I  distinguished  Mr.  Rochester's  voice, 
and  heard  him  say,  "  This  way,  Mason  ;  this  is 
your  room." 

He  spoke  cheerfully :  the  gay  tones  set  my 
heart  at  ease.     I  was  soon  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

I  HAD  forgotten  to  draw  my  curtain,  which  I 
usually  did,  and  also  to  let  down  my  window- 
bhnd.  The  consequence  was,  that  when  the 
rooon,  which  was  full  and  bright  (for  the  night 
was  fine),  came  in  |ier  course  to  that  space  in 
the  sky  opposite  my  casement,  and  looked  in  at 
me  through  the  unveiled  panes,  her  glorious 
gaze  roused  me.  Awaking  in  the  dead  of  night, 
I  opened  my  eyes  on  her  disk — silver-white  and 
crystal-clear.  It  was  beautiful,  but  too  solemn  ; 
I  half  rose,  and  stretched  my  arm  to  draw  the 
curtain. 

Good  God  !     What  a  cry  ! 

The  night — its  silence — its  rest,  was  rent  in 
twain  by  a  savage,  a  sharp,  a  shrilly  sound  that 
ran  from  end  to  end  of  Ttiornfield  Hall. 

My  pulse  stopped — my  heart  stood  still — my 
stretched  arm  was  paralyzed.  The  cry  died, 
and  was  not  renewed.  Indeed,  whatever  being 
uttered  that  fearful  shriek  could  not  soon  r^eat 
it ;  not  the  widest-winged  condor  on  the  Andes 
could,  twice  in  succession,  send  out  such  a  yell 
from  the  cloud  shrouding  his  eyry.  The  thing 
delivering  such  utterance  must  rest  ere  it  could 
repeat  the  effort. 

It  came  out  of  the  third  story  ;  for  it  passed 
overhead.  And  overhead — yes,  in  the  room 
joBt  above  my  chamber-ceiling — I  now  heard  a 


struggle :    a  deadly  ono  it  seemed  from  the 
noise  ;  and  a  half-smothered  voice  shouted — 

"Help!  help!  help!"  three  times  rapidly. 

"Will  no  oneT  cornel"  it  cried;  and  then, 
while  the  staggering  and  stamping  went  on 
wildly,  I  distmguished,  through  plank  and 
plaster — 

"Rochester!  Rochester!  For  God's  sake. 
Come !" 

A  chamber-door  opened  ;  some  one  ran,  or 
rushed,  along  the  gallery.  Another  step 
stamped  on  the  flooring  above,  and  some- 
thing fell ;  and  there  was  silence. 

I  had  put  on  some  clothes,  though  horror 
shook  all  niy  limbs :  I  issued  from  my  apart- 
ment. The  sleepers  were  all  aroused  ;  ejacu- 
lations, terrified  murmurs  sounded  in  every 
room ;  door  after  door  unclosed ;  one  looked 
out  and  another  looked  out ;  the  gallery  filled. 
Gentlemen  and  ladies  alike  had  quitted  their 
beds;  and  "Oh!  \^'hat  is  it1" — "Who  is 
hurt?" — "What  has  happened  V — "Fetch  a 
light!" — "Is  it  fire?" — "Are  there  robbers?" 
— "Where  shall  we  run?"  was  demanded 
confusedly  on  all  hands.  But  for  the  moon- 
light ihey  would  have  been  in  complete  dark- 
ness. "They  ran  to  and  fro;  they  crowded 
together :  some  sobbed,  some  stumbled  ;  the 
confusion  was  inextricable. 

"Where  the  devil  is  Rochester?"  cried 
Colonel  Dent.  "I  can  not  find  him  in  his 
bed." 

"Here!  here!"  was  shouted  in  return. 
"  Be  composed,  all  of  you  :  I'm  coming." 

And  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery 
opened,  and  Mr.  Rochester  advanced  with  a 
candle ;  he  had  just  descended  from  the  upper 
story.  One  of  the  ladies  ran  to  him  directly; 
she  seized  his  arm  -,  it  was  Miss  Ingram. 

"What  awful  event  has  taken  place?"  said 
she.   "  Speak  !  let  us  know  the  worst  at  once!" 

"  But  don't  pull  me  down  or  strangle  me," 
he  replied  ;  for  the  Misses  Eshton  were  cling- 
ing about  him  now  ;  and  the  two  dowagers,  in 
vast  white  wrappers,  were  bearing  down  on 
him  like  ships  in  lull  sail. 

"  Airs  right :— all's  right !"  he  cried.  "  It'fB 
a  mere  rehearsal  of  n?uch  ado  about  nothing. 
Ladies,  keep  off,  or  I  shall  wax  dangerous." 

And  dangerous  he  looked ;  his  black  eyes 
darted  sparks.  Calming  himself  by  an  effort, 
he  added, 

"  A  servant  has  had  the  nightmare  ;  that  is 
all.  She's  an  excitable,  nervous  person ;  she 
construed  her  dream  into  an  apparition,  or 
something  of  that  sort,  no  doubt ;  and  has 
taken  a  fit  with  fright.  Now,  then.  I  must  see 
you  all  back  into  your  rooms;  for,  till  the  house 
is  settled,  she  can  not  be  looked  after.  Gentle- 
men, have  the  goodness  to  set  the  ladies  the 
example.  Miss  Ingram,  I  am  sure  you  will 
not  fail  in  evincing  superiority  to  idle  terrors. 
.\my  and  Louisa,  return  to  your  nests  like  a 
pair  of  doves,  as  you  are.  Mesdames  (to  the 
dowagers),  you  wdl  take  cold  to  a  dead  cer- 
tainty, if  you  stay  in  this  chill  gallery  any 
longer." 

And  so,  by  dint  of  alternate  coaxing  and 
commanding,  he  contrived  to  get  them  aUcnce 
m<ire    inclosed  in  their  separate  dormitories.* 
I  did  not  wait  to  be  ordered  back  to  mine,  but 
retreated  unnoticed,  as  I'.nnnticed  I  !.;"'  L-0    <■ 


80 


JANE  EYRE. 


Not,  however,  to  go  to  bed  ;  on  the  contrary, 
1  began  and  dressed  myself  carefully.  The 
sounds  I  had  heard  after  the  scream,  and  the 
words  that  had  been  uttered,  had  probably  been 
heard  only  by  me  ;  for  they  had  proceeded  from 
the  room  above  mine :  but  they  assured  me 
that  it  was  not  a  servant's  dream  which  had 
thus  struck  horror  through  the  house  ;  and  that 
the  explanation  Mr.  Rochester  had  given  was 
merely  an  invention  framed  to  pacify  his  guests. 
I  dressed,  then,  to  be  ready  for  emergencies. 
When  dressed,  I  sat  a  long  time  by  the  win- 
dow, looking  out  over  the  silent  grouncls  and 
silvered  fields,  and  waiting  for  I  knew  not 
■what.  It  seemed  to  me  that  some  event  must 
follow  the  strange  cry,  struggle,  and  call. 

No  ;  stillness  returned  ;  each  murmur  and 
movement  ceased  gradually,  and,  in  about  an 
hour,  Thornfield  Hall  was  again  as  hushed  as 
a  desert.  It  seemed  that  sleep  and  night  had 
resumed  their  empire.  Meantime  the  moon 
declined  ;  she  was  about  to  set.  Not  liking  to 
sit  in  the  cold  and  darkness,  I  thought  I  would 
lie  down  on  my  bed,  dressed  as  I  was.  I  left 
the  window,  and  moved  with  little  noise  across 
the  carpet ;  as  I  stooped  to  take  off  my  shoes, 
a  cautious  hand  tapped  low  at  the  door. 

"  Am  I  wanted  1"  I  asked. 

"Are  you  upl"  asked  the  voice  I  expected 
to  hear,  viz.,  my  master's. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  dressed  1" 

"Yes." 

"  Come  out,  then,  quietly." 

I  obeyed.  Mr.  Rochester  stood  in  the  gal- 
lery, holding  a  light. 

"  I  want  you,"  he  said  ;  "  come  this  way ; 
take  your  time,  and  make  no  noise." 

My  slippers  were  thin  ;  I  could  walk  the 
matted  floor  as  softly  as  a  cat.  He  glided  up 
the  gallery  and  up  the  stairs,  and  stopped  in 
the  dark,  low  corridor  of  the  fateful  third  story ; 
I  had  followed  and  stood  at  his  side. 

"Have  you  a  sponge  in  your  roomV  he 
■isked  in  a  whisper. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Have  you  any  salts — volatile  salts'!" 

"Yes." 

"  Go  back  and  fetch  both." 

I  returned,  sought  the  sponge  on  the  wash- 
stand,  the  salts  in  my  drawer,  and  once  more 
retraced  my  steps.  He  still  waited  ;  he  held 
a  key  in  his  hand  :  approaching  one  of  the 
small,  black  doors,  he  put  it  in  the  lock ;  he 
paused  and  addressed  me  again. 

"You  don't  turn  sick  at  the  sight  of  blood!" 

"  I  think  I  shall  rot ;  1  have  never  been 
tried  yet." 

I  felt  a  thrill  while  I  answered  him ;  but  no 
coldness,  and  no  faintness. 

"  Just  give  me  your  hand,"  he  said,  "  it  will 
not  do  to  risk  a  fainting  fit." 

I  put  my  fingers  into  his.  "  Warm  and 
steady,"  was  his  remark ;  he  turned  the  key 
and  opened  the  door. 

I  saw  a  room  1  remembered  to  have  seen 
before,  the  day  Mrs.  Fairfax  showed  me  over 
the  house  ;  it  was  hung  with  tapestry;  but  the 
tapestry  was  now  looped  up  in  one  pait,  and 
there  was  a  door  apparent,  which  had  then 
been  concealed.     This  door  was  open  ;  a  light 

hone  out  of  the  room  within  ;  1  heard  thence 


a  snarling,  snatching  sound,  almost  like  a  dog 
quarreling.  Mr.  Rochester,  putting  down  his 
candle,  said  to  me,  "  Wait  a  minute,"  and  he 
went  forward  to  the  inner  apartment.  A  shout 
of  laughter  greeted  his  entrance  ,  noisy  at  first, 
and  terminating  in  Grace  Poole's  own  goblin 
ha  !  ha  !  She,  then,  was  there.  He  made  some 
sort  of  arrangement,  without  speaking  ;  though 
I  heard  a  low  voice  address  him  :  he  came  out 
and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

"Here,  Jane  !"  he  said  ;  and  I  walked  round 
to  the  other  side  of  a  large  bed,  which,  with  its 
drawn  curtains,  concealed  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  the  chamber.  An  easy-chair  was  near 
the  bed-head  :  a  man  sat  in  it,  dressed,  with 
the  exception  of  his  coat ;  he  was  still ;  his 
head  leaned  back ;  his  eyes  were  closed.  Mr. 
Rochester  held  the  candle  over  him  ;  I  recog- 
nized in  his  pale  and  seemingly  lifeless  face — 
the  stranger.  Mason  :  I  sa\y,  too,  that  his  linen 
on  one  side,  and  one  arm,  was  almost  soaked 
in  blood. 

"  Hold  the  candle."  said  Mr.  Rochester,  and 
I  took  it ;  he  fetched  a  basin  of  water  from  the 
wash-stand  :  "  hold  that,"  said  he.  I  obeyed. 
He  took  the  sponge,  dipped  it  in  and  moistened 
the  corpse-like  face  :  he  asked  for  my  smelling- 
bottle,  and  applied  it  to  the  nostrils.  Mr.  Ma- 
son shortly  unclosed  his  eyes  ;  he  groaned. 
Mr.  Rochester  opened  the  shirt  of  the  wounded 
man,  whose  arm  and  shoulder  were  bandaged  • 
he  sponged  away  blood,  trickling  fast  down. 

"  Is  there  immediate  danger,"  murmured  Mr 
Mason. 

"  Pooh  !  No — a  mere  scratch.  Don't  be  so 
overcome,  man  :  bear  up  I  I'll  fetch  a  surgeon 
for  you  now,  myself — you'll  be  able  to  be  re- 
moved by  morning,  I  hope.  Jane — "  he  con- 
tinued. 
"SirV' 

'•  I  shall  have  to  leave  you  in  this  room  with 
this  gentlemen  for  an  hour,  or,  perhaps,  two 
hours ;  you  will  sponge  the  blood  as  I  do  when 
it  returns  :  if  he  feels  faint,  you  will  put  the 
glass  of  water  on  that  stand,  to  his  lips,  and 
your  salts  to  his  nose.  You  will  not  .speak  to 
him  on  any  pretext — and,  Richard,  it  will  be 
at  the  peril  of  your  life  you  speak  to  her ; 
open  your  lips — agitate  yourself — and  I'll  not 
answer  for  the  consequences. '! 

Again  the  poor  man  groaned  ;  he  looked  as 
if  he  dared  not  move — fear,  either  of  death  or 
of  something  else,  appeared  almost  to  paralyze 
him.  Mr  Rochester  put  the  now  bloody  sponge 
into  my  hand,  and  I  proceeded  to  use  it  as  he 
had  done.  He  watched  mc  a  second,  then  say- 
ing, "  Remember  ! — no  conversation,"  he  left 
the  room.  I  experienced  a  strange  feeling  as 
the  key  grated  in  the  lock,  and  the  sound  of  his 
retreating  step  ceased  to  be  heard. 

Here  then  I  was  in  the  third  story,  fastened 
into  one  of  its  mystic  cells — night  around  me — 
a  pale  and  bloody  spectacle  under  my  eyes  and 
hands — a  murderess  hardly  separated  from  me 
by  a  single  door:  yes — that  was  appalling— 
I  the  rest  1  could  bear ;  but  I  shuddered  at  the 
thought  of  Grace  Poole  bursting  out  upon  me. 

I  must  keep  to  my  post,  however.     1  must 

watch  this  ghas^lly  countenance — the.se   blue,' 

I  still  lips  forbidden  to  unclose— these  eyes  now 

!  shut,  now  opening,  now  wandering  through  the 

:  room,  now  fixing  on  me,  and  ever  glazed  with 


JANE  EYRE. 


81 


the  dullness  of  horror.  I  must  dip  my  hand 
again  and  again  in  the  basin  of  blood  and 
water,  and  wipe  away  the  trickling  gore.  I 
must  see  the  light  of  the  unsnufTed  candle  wane 
on  my  employment ;  the  shadows  darken  on 
the  wrought,  antique  tapestry  round  me,  and 
grow  black  under  the  hangings  of  the  vast  old 
bed,  and  quiver  strangely  over  the  doors  of  a 
great  cabinet  opjiosite — whose  front,  divided 
into  twelve  panels,  bore,  in  grim  design,  the 
heads  of  the  twelve  apostles,  each  inclosed  in 
its  separate  panel  as  in  a  frame ;  while  above 
them  at  the  top  rose  an  ebon  crucifix  and  a  dy- 
ing Christ. 

According  as  the  shifting  obscurity  and  flick- 
ering gleam  hovered  here  or  glanced  there,  it 
was  now  the  bearded  physician,  Luke,  that  bent 
his  brow  ;  now  St.  John's  long  hair  that  waved  ; 
and  anon  the  devilish  face  of  Judas,  that  grevv 
out  of  the  panel  and  seemed  gathering  life  and 
threatening  a  revelation  of  the  arch-traitor — 
of  Satan  himself— in  his  subordinate's  form. 

Amid  all  this,  I  had  to  listen  as  well  as 
watch — to  listen  for  the  movements  of  the  wild 
beast  or  the  fiend  in  yonder  side  den.  But 
since  Mr.  Rochester's  visit,  it  seemed  spell- 
bound ;  all  the  night  I  heard  but  three  sounds, 
at  three  long  intervals — a  step,  creak,  a  mo- 
mentary renewal  of  the  snarling,  canine  noise, 
and  a  deep  human  groan. 

Then  my  own  thoughts  worried  me.  What 
crime  was  this,  that  lived  incarnate  in  this 
sequestered  mansion,  and  could  neither  be  ex- 
pelled nor  subdued  by  the  owner"!  What  mys- 
tery, that  broke  out,  now  in  fire  and  now  in 
blood,  at  the  deadest  hours  of  night  1  What 
creature  was  it,  that,  masked  in  an  ordinary 
woman's  face  and  shape,  uttered  the  voice, 
now  of  a  mocking  demon,  and  anon  of  a  car- 
rion-seeking bird  of  prey  1 

And  this  man  I  bent  over — this  common- 
place, quiet  stranger — how  had  he  become  in- 
volved in  the  web  of  horror  1  and  why  had  the 
Fury  flown   at  him^     What  made  him  seek 
this  quarter  of  the  house  at  an  untimely  season, 
when  he  should  have  been  asleep  in  bed !     I 
had  heard  Mr.  Rochester  assign  him  an  apart- 
ment below — what  brought  him   here  ■?     And 
why,  now,  was  he  so  tame  under  the  violence 
or  treachery  done  him  1     Why  did  he  so  quietly 
submit  to  the  concealment  Mr.  Rochester  en- 
forced ]     Why  did  Mr.  Rochester  enforce  this 
concealment !     His  guest  had  been  outraged, 
his  own  life  on  a  former  occasion  had  been  hid- 
eously plotted  against ;  and  both  attempts  he 
smothered  in  secrecy  and  sunk   in  oblivion ! 
Lastly,  I  saw  Mr.  Mason  was  submissive  to  Mr. 
Rochester  ;  that  the  impetuous  will  of  the  lat- 
ter held  complete  sway  over  the  inertness  of 
the  former  :  the  few  words  whicli  had  passed 
between  them  assured  me  of  this.     It  was  ev- 
ident that,  in  their  former  intercourse,  the  pass- 
ive disposition  of  the  one  had  been  habitually 
influenced  by  the  active  energy  of  the  other  : 
-  whence,  then,  had  arisen  Mr.  Rochester's  dis- 
may when  he  heard  of  Mr.  Mason's  arrivall 
Why  had  the  mere  name  of  this  unresisting  in- 
dividual— whom  his  word  now  sufficed  to  con- 
trol like  a  child— fallen  on  him,  a  fpw  hours 
since,  as  a  thunderbolt  might  fall  on  an  oak  1 

Oh !  I  could   not   forget   his  look   and   his 
paleness  when  he  whispered — "  Jane,  I  have 
F 


got  a  blow — I  have  got  a  blow,  Jane."  I  could 
not  forget  how  the  arm  had  trembled  which 
he  rested  on  my  shoulder :  and  it  was  no  light 
matter  which  could  thus  bow  the  resolute 
spirit  and  thrill  the  vigorous  frame  of  Fairfax 
Rochester. 

"  When  will  he  come  1  When  will  he 
come  V  I  cried  inwardly,  as  the  night  lingered 
and  lingered — as  my  bleeding  patient  drooped, 
moaned,  sickened ;  and  neither  day  nor  aid 
arrived.  I  had,  again  and  again,  held  the 
water  to  Mason's  white  lips  ;  again  and  again 
offered  him  the  stimulating  salts ;  my  efforts 
seemed  ineffectual :  either  bodily  or  mental 
suffering,  or  loss  of  blood,  or  all  three  com- 
bined, were  fast  prostrating  his  strength.  He 
moaned  so,  and  looked  so  weak,  wild,  and  lost, 
I  feared  he  was  dying ;  and  I  might  not  even 
speak  to  him  ! 

The  candle,  wasted  at  last,  went  out ;  as  it 
expired,  I  perceived  streaks  of  gray  light 
edging  the  window-curtains  ;  dawn  was  then 
approaching.  Presently  I  heard  Pilot  bark  far 
below,  out  of  his  distant  kennel  in  the  court- 
yard ;  hope  revived.  Nor  was  it  unwarranted  ; 
in  five  minutes  more  the  grating  key,  the  yield- 
ing lock,  warned  me  my  watch  was  relieved. 
It  could  not  have  lasted  more  than  two  hours  ; 
many  a  week  has  seemed  shorter. 

Mr.  Rochester  entered,  and  with  him  the 
surgeon  he  had  been  to  fetch. 

"  Now,  Carter,  be  on  the  alert,"  he  said  to 
this  last ;  "  I  give  you  but  half  an  hour  for 
dressing  the  wound,  fastening  the  bandages, 
getting  the  patient  down  stairs  and  all." 

"  But  is  he  fit  to  move,  sir?" 

"  No  doubt  of  it ;  it  is  nothing  serious  :  he 
is  nervous,  his  spirits  must  be  kept  up.  Come, 
set  to  work." 

Mr.  Rochester  drew  back  the  thick  curtain, 
drew  up  the  holland-blind,  let  in  all  the  day- 
light he  could  ;  and  I  was  surprised  and  cheered 
to  see  how  far  dawn  was  advanced  ;  what  rosy 
streaks  were  beginning  to  brighten  the  east. 
Then  he  approached  Mason,  whom  the  sur- 
geon was  already  handling. 

"Now,  my  good  fellow,  how  are  youl"  he 
asked.  ' 

"  She's  done  for  me,  I  fear,"  was  the  faint 
reply. 

"  Not  a  whit !— courage  !  This  day  fort- 
night you'll  hardly  be  a  pin  the  worse  of  it : 
you've  lost  a  little  blood,  that's  all.  Carter, 
assure  him  there's  no  danger." 

"  I  can  do  that  conscientiously,"  said  Carter, 
who  had  now  undone  the  bandages ;  "  only  I 
wish  I  could  have  got  here  sooner  ;  he  would 
not  have  bled  so  much — but  how  is  this  !  The 
flesh  on  the  shoulder  is  torn  as  well  as  cuf? 
This  wound  was  not  done  with  a  knife  :  there 
have  been  teeth  herel" 

'•  She  bit  me,"  he  murmured.  "  She  worried 
me  like  a  tigress,  when  Rochester  got  the  knife 
from  her." 

"  You  should  not  have  yielded  ;  you  should 
have  grappled  with  her  at  once,"  said  Mr. 
Rochester. 

"  But  under  such  circumstances,  what  could 
I  one  do  !"  returned  Mason.    "  Oh,  it  was  fright- 
I  ful  I"  he  added,  shuddering.     "  And  I  did  not 
'  expect  it ;  she  looked  so  quiet  at  first."' 
I     "  I  warned  you,"  was  his  friend's  answer ; 


83 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  I  said — be  on  your  guard  when  you  go  near 
her.  BesideE,  you  might  have  wailed  till  to- 
morrow and  had  ine  with  you  ;  it  was  mere 
folly  to  attempt  the  interview  to-night,  and 
alone." 

"  I  thought  I  could  have  done  some  good." 
"  You  thought  I  you  thought !  Yes,  it  makes 
mo  impatient  to  hear  you  ;  but,  however,  you 
have  suffered,  and  are  likely  to  suffer  enough 
for  not  taking  my  advice;  so  I'll  say  no  more. 
Carter — hurry!  hurry!  The  sun  will  soon 
rise,  and  I  must  have  him  off." 

"Directly,  sir;  the  shoulder  is  just  bandaged. 
I  must  look  to  this  other  wound  in  the  arm  : 
she  has  had  her  teeth  here  too,  I  think." 

"  She  has  sucked  the  blood  :  she  said  she'd 
drain  my  heart,"  said  Mason. 

I  saw  Mr.  Rochester  shudder:  a  singularly 
inarkeii  expression  of  disgust,  horror,  hatred 
warped  his  countenance  almost  to  distortion; 
but  he  only  said — 

"  Come,  he  silent,  Richard,  and  never  mind 
her  gibberish  :  don't  repeat  it." 

"I  wish  1  could  forget  it,"  was  the  answer. 
"You  will  when  you  are  out  of  the  country  : 
when  you  gel  back  to  Spanish  Town  you  may 
think  of  her  as  dead  and  buried — or  rather,  you 
need  not  think  of  her  at  all." 

"  Impossible  to  forget  this  night !" 
"  It  IS  not  impossible ;  have  some  energy, 
man.  You  thought  you  were  as  dead  as  a 
herring  two  hours  since,  and  you  are  all  alive 
and  talking  now.  Then? ! — Carter  has  done 
with  ycu,  or  nearly  so  ;  I'll  make  you  decent  in 
a  trice.  Jane  (he  turned  to  me  for  the  first 
lime  since  his  re-entrance),  take  this  key  ;  go 
down  into  my  dressing-room ;  open  the  top 
drawer  of  the  wardrobe  and  take  out  a  clean 
shirt  and  neck-handkerchief;  bring  them  here  ; 
and  be  nimble." 

I  went ;  sought  tiie  repository  he  had  men- 
tioned, found  the  articles  named,  and  returned 
with  them. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  go  to  the  other  side  of  the 
bed  while  I  order  his  toilet ;  but  don't  leave  the 
room  ;  you  may  be  wanted  again." 
I  retired  as  directed. 

"  Was  any  body  stirring  below  when  you 
went  down,  Janel"  inquired  Mr.  Rochester, 
presently. 

"  No,  sir  ;  all  was  very  still." 
"We  shall  get  you  off  cannily,  Dick  ;  and  it 
will  be  better  both  for  your  sake,  and  for  that 
of  the  poor  creature  in  yonder.  I  have  striven 
long  to  avoid  exposure,  and  I  should  not  like 
it  to  come  at  last.  Here,  Carter,  help  him  on 
with  his  waistcoat.  Where  did  you  leave  your 
furred  cloak  1     You  can't  travel  a  mile  without 

that,  I  know,  in  this  d d  cold  climate.     In 

your  rooml  Jane,  run  down  to  Mr.  Mason's 
room,  the  one  next  mine,  and  fetch  a  cloak  you 
will  see  there." 

Again  I  ran,  and  again  returned,  bearing  an 
immense  mantle  lined  and  edged  wilh  fur. 

"  Now  I've  another  errand  for  you,"  said  my 
untiring  master  ;  "  you  must  away  to  my  room 
again.  What  a  mercy  you  are  shod  with  vel- 
vet, Jane  ! — a  clod-hopping  messenger  would 
never  do  at  this  juncture.  You  must  open  the 
middle  drawer  of  my  toilet-table  and  take  out 
a  little  phial  and  a  little  glass  you  will  find 
there — quick!" 


I  flew  thither  and  back,  bringing  the  desired 
vessels. 

"  That's  well  !  Now,  doctor,  I  shall  take  the 
liberty  of  administering  a  dose  myself;  on  my 
own  responsibility.  I  got  this  cordial  at  Rome, 
of  an  Italian  charlatan — a  fellow  you  would 
have  kicked,  Carter.  It  is  not  a  thing  to  be 
used  indiscriminately,  hut  it  is  good  upon  occa- 
sion, as  now,  for  instance.  Jane,  a  little  water." 

He  held  out  the  liny  glass,  and  I  half  filled  it 
from  the  water-botile  on  the  wash-siand. 

"  That  will  do  ;  now  wet  the  lip  of  the  phial." 

I  did  so  ;  he  measured  twelve  drops  of  a 
crimson  liquid,  and  presented  it  to  Mason. 

"  Drink,  Richard  ;  it  will  give  you  the  heart 
you  lack,  for  an  hour  or  so." 

"  But  will  it  hurt  me  ? — is  it  inflammatory  1" 

"Drink  !  drink  !  drink!" 

Mr.  Mason  obeyed,  because  it  was  evident- 
ly useless  to  resist.  He  was  dressed  now  ;  he 
still  looked  pale,  but  he  was  no  longer  gory  and 
sullied.  Mr.  Rochester  let  him  sit  three  min- 
utes after  he  had  swallowed  the  liquid  ;  he  then 
took  his  arm. 

"  Now  I  am  sure  you  can  get  on  your  feet," 
he  said  ;  "  try." 

The  patient  rose. 

"  Carter,  take  him  under  the  other  shoulder. 
Be  of  good  cheer,  Richard  ;  step  out ;  that'8 
it!" 

"  I  do  feel  better."  remarked  Mr.  Mason. 

"I  am  sure  you  do.  Now,  Jane,  trip  on  be- 
fore us  away  to  the  back  stairs  ;  unbolt  the  side- 
passage  door,  and  lell  the  driver  of  the  post- 
chaise  you  Will  see  in  the  yard — or  just  outside, 
for  I  told  him  not  to  drive  his  rattling  wheels 
over  the  pavement — to  be  ready  ;  we  are  com- 
ing ;  and,  Jane,  if  any  one  is  about,  come  to  tho 
foot  of  the  stairs  and  hem." 

It  was  by  this  time  half-past  five,  and  the 
sun  was  on  the  point  of  rising;  but  I  found  ihe 
kitchen  still  dark  and  silent.  The  side-passago 
door  was  fastened ;  I  opened  it  with  as  little 
noise  as  possible  ;  all  the  yard  w^s  quiet ;  but 
the  gates  stood  wide  open,  and  there  was  a 
post-chaise,  with  horses  ready  harnessed,  and 
driver  seated  on  the  box,  stationed  outside.  I 
approached  him,  and  said  the  gentlemen  were 
coming ;  he  nodded  ;  then  I  looked  carefully 
round  and  listened.  The  stillness  of  early . 
morning  slumbered  every  where  ;  the  curtains 
were  yet  drawn  over  the  servants'  chamber 
windows  ;  little  birds  were  just  twittering  in  the 
blossom-blanched  orchard  trees,  whose  boughs 
drooped  like  white  garlands  over  the  wall  in- 
closing one  side  of  the  yard  ;  the  carriage  horses 
stamped  from  time  to  tiptie  in  their  closed  sta- 
bles :  all  else  was  still. 

The  gentlemen  now  appeared.  Mason,  sup- 
ported by  Mr.  Rochester  and  the  surgeon, 
seemed  to  walk  \\\['.\  tolerable  ease;  they  as- 
sisted him  into  the  chaise  ;  Carter  followed. 

"Take  care  of  hiju,"  said  Mr.  Rochester  to 
the  latter,  "  and  keep  him  at  your  house  till  he 
is  quite  well ;  I  shall  ride  over  in  a  day  or  two 
to  see  how  he  gets  on.     Richard,  how  is  it  with 


you 


1" 


"  The  fresh  air  revives  me,  Fairfax." 
"Leave  the  window  open  on  his  side,  Car^ 
ter ;  there  is  no  wind— good-bye,  Dick," 
"Fairfax — " 
"Well,  what  ia  itV 


JANE  EYRE. 


83 


"  Let  her  be  taken  care  of;  let  her  be  treated 
as  tenderly  as  may  be  ;  let  her — '  He  stopped 
and  burst  into  tears. 

"  I  do  my  best ;  and  have  done  it,  and  will 
do  it,"  was  the  answer.  He  shut  up  the  chaise 
door,  and  the  vehicle  drove  away. 

"  Yet  would  to  God  there  was  an  end  of  all 
this!"  added  Mr.  Rochester,  as  he  closed  and 
barred  the  heavy  yard-gates.  This  done,  he 
moved  with  slow  step  and  abstracted  air,  to- 
ward a  door  in  the  wall  bordering  the  orchard. 
I,  supposing  he  had  done  with  me,  prepared  to 
return  to  the  house;  again,  however,  I  heard 
him  call  "  Jane  !"  He  had  opened  the  portal 
and  stood  at  it,  waiting  for  me. 

"  Co'me  where  there  is  some  freshness,  for 
a  few  moments,"  he  said  ;  "  that  house  is  a 
mere  dungeon  ;  don't  you  feel  it  so  1" 

"It  seems  to  me  a  splendid  mansion,  sir." 

"  The  glamour  of  inexperience  is  over  your 
eyes,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  you  see  it  through 
a  charmed  medium  ;  you  can  not  discern  that 
the  gilding  is  slime  and  the  silk  draperies  cob- 
webs ;  that  the  marble  is  sordid  slate,  and  the 
polished  woods  mere  refuse  chips  a>id  scaly 
bark.  Now  here  (he  pointed  to  the  leafy  in- 
closure  we  had  entered)  all  is  real,  sweet,  and 
pure." 

He  strayed  down  a  walk  edged  with  box  ; 
with  apple-trees,  pear-trees,  and  cherry-trees 
on  one  side,  and  a  border  on  the  other,  full  of 
all  sorts  of  old-fashioned  flowers,  stocks,  sweet- 
williams,  primroses,  pansies,  mingled  with 
southernwood,  sweet-brier,  and  various  fra- 
grant herbs.  They  were  fresh  now  as  a  suc- 
cession of  April  showers  and  gleams,  followed 
by  a  lovely  spring  morning,  could  make  them  ; 
the  sun  was  just  entering  the  dappled  east,  and 
his  light  illumined  the  wreathed  and  dewy  or- 
chard trees  and  shone  down  the  quiet  walks 
under  them. 

"  Jane,  will  you  have  a  flower'?" 

He  gathered  a  half-blown  rose,  the  first  on 
the  bush,  and  offered  it  to  me. 

"Thank  you,  sir," 

"Do  you  like  this  sunrise,  Janel  That  sky 
with  its  high  and  light  clouds  which  are  sure  to 
melt  away  as  the  day  waxes  warm — this  placid 
and  balmy  atmosphere  1" 

"  I  do,,  very  much." 

"You  have  passed  a  strange  night,  Jane." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  it  has  made  you  look  pale — were  you 
afraid  when  I  left  you  alone  with  Mason  V 

"  I  was  afraid  of  some  one  coming  out  of  the 
inner  room." 

"  But  I  had  fastened  the  door — I  had  the 
key  in  my  pocket ;  I  should  have  been  a  care- 
less shepherd  if  I  had  left  a  lamb — my  pet  lamb, 
80  near  a  wolf's-den,  unguarded;  you  were  safe." 

"Will  Grace  Poole  live  here  still,  sirl" 

"Oh,  yes !  don't  trouble  your  head  about  her 
— put  the  thing  out  of  your  thoughts." 

"  Yet  it  seems  to  me  your  life  is  hardly  se- 
cure while  she  stays." 

"  Never  fear — I  will  take  care  of  myself  " 

"Is  the  danger  you  apprehended  last  night 
gone  by  now,  sir?" 

"  I  can  not  vouch  for  that  till  Mason  is  out  of 
England  ;  nor  even  then.  To  live,  for  me, 
Jane,  is  to  stand  on  a  crater-crust  which  may 
crack  and  spue  fire  any  day." 


"  But  Mr.  Mason  seems  a  man  easily  led. 
Your  influence,  sir,  is  evidently  potent  with 
him  ;  he  will  never  set  you  at  defiance,  or  will- 
fully injure  you." 

"  Oh,  no !  Mason  will  not  defy  me  ;  nor,  know- 
ing it,  will  he  hurt  me— but,  unintentionally,  he 
might  in  a  moment,  by  one  careless  word,  de- 
prive me,  if  not  of  life,  yet  forever  of  happiness." 
"  Tell  him  to  be  cautious,  sir;  let  him  know 
what  you  fear,  and  shotw  him  how  to  avert  the 
danger." 

He  laughed  sardonically,  hastily  took  my 
hand,  and  as  hastily  threw  it  from  him. 

"If  I  could  do  that,  simpleton,  where  would 
the  danger  be  1  Annihilated  in  a  moment. 
Ever  since  I  have  known  Mason,  I  have  only 
had  to  say  to  him  'Do  that,'  and  the  thing  has 
been  done.  But  I  can  not  give  him  orders  in 
this  case  :  I  can  not  say  '  Beware  of  harming 
me,  Richard ;'  for  it  is  imperative  that  I  should 
keep  him  ignorant  that  harm  to  me  is  possible. 
Now  you  look  puzzled  ;  and  I  will  puzzle  you 
further.     You  are  my  little  friend,  are  you  not !" 

"  I  like  to  serve  you,  sir,  and  to  obey  you  in 
all  that  is  right." 

"  Precisely :  I  see  you  do.  I  see  genuine 
contentment  in  your  gait  and  mien,  your  ej'e 
and  face,  when  you  are  helping  me  and  pleas- 
ing me — working  for  me,  and  with  me,  in,  as 
you  characteristically  say, '  all  (hat  is  right :'  for 
if  I  bid  you  do  what  you  thought  wrong,  there 
would  be  no  light-fooled  running,  no  neat- 
handed  alacrity,  no  lively  glance  and  animated 
complexion.  My  friend  would  then  turn  to  me, 
quiet  and  pale,  and  would  say,  'No,  sir;  that 
is  impossible ;  I  can  not  do  it,  because  it  is 
wrong,'  and  would  "become  immutable  as  a 
fixed  star.  Well,  you,  too,  have  power  over  me, 
and  may  injure  me :  yet  I  dare  not  show  you 
where  I  alu  vulnerable,  lest,  faithful  and  friend- 
ly as  you  are,  you  should  transfix  me  at  once." 

"If  you  have  no  more  to  fear  from  Mr.  Ma- 
son than  you  have  from  me,  sir,  you  are  very 
safe." 

"  God  grant  it  may  be  so !  Here,  Jane,  is  aa 
arbor;  sit  down."      i 

The  arbor  was  an  arch  in  the  wall,  lined 
with  ivy ;  it  contained  a  rustic  seat.  Mr. 
Rochester  took  it,  leaving  room,  however,  for 
me ;  but  I  stood  before  him. 

"  Sit,"  he  said  ;  "  the  bench  is  long  enough 
for  two.  You  don't  hesitate  to  take  a  place  at 
my  side,  do  you  1     Is  that  wrong  1" 

I  answered  him  by  assuming  it :  to  refuse 
would,  I  felt,  have  been  unwise. 

"  Now,  my  little  friend,  while  the  sun  drinks 
the  dew — while  all  the  flowers  in  this  old  gardea 
awake  and  expand,  and  the  birds  fetch  their 
young  ones'  breakfast  out  of  the  thorn-field, 
and  the  early  bees  do  their  first  spell  of  work 
— I'll  put  a  case  to  you,  which  you  must  en- 
deavor to  suppose  your  own :  but  first,  look  at  • 
me,  and  tell  me  you  are  at  ease,  and  not  fear- 
ing that  I  err  in  detaining  you.  or  that  you  err 
in  staying:." 

"No,  sir;  I  am  content." 

"  Well,  then,  Jane,  call  to  aid  your  fancy  : — 
supposed  you  were  no  longer  a  girl  well  reared 
and  disciplined,  but  a  wild  boy,  indulged  from 
childhood  upward ;  imagine  yourself  in  a  re- 
mole  foreign  land ;  conceive  that  you  there 
commit  a  capital  error,  no  matter  of  what  na 


84 


JANE  EYRE. 


ture  or  from  what  motives,  but  one  whose  con- 
sequences must  follow  you  through  life  and 
taint  all  your  existence.  Mind,  I  don't  say  a 
crime ;  I  am  not  speaking  of  shedding  of  blood 
or  any  other  guiliy  act,  which  might  make  the 
perpetrator  amenable  to  the  law :  my  word  is 
error.  The  results  of  what  you  have  done  be- 
come in  time  to  you  utterly  insupportable  ;  you 
take  measures  to  obtain  relief:  unusual  meas- 
ures, but  neither  unlawful  nor  culpable.  Still 
you  are  miserable  ;  for  hope  has  quitted  you  on 
the  very  confines  of  life  :  your  sun  at  noon 
darkens  in  an  eclipse,  which  you  feel  will  not 
leave  it  till  the  time  of  setting.  Bitter  and 
base  associations  have  become  the  sole  food 
of  your  memory  :  you  wander  here  and  there, 
seeking  rest  in  exile  ;  happiness  in  pleasure — 1 
mean  in  heartless,  sensual  pleasure — such  as 
dulls  intellect  and  blights  feeling.  Heart- 
weary  and  soul-withered,  you  come  home  after 
years  of  voluntary  banishment ;  you  make  a 
new  acquaintance — how,  or  where,  no  matter  : 
you  find  in  this  stranger  much  of  the  good  and 
bright  qualities  which  you  have  sought  for 
twenty  years,  and  never  before  encountered ; 
and  they  are  all  fresh,  healthy,  without  soil  and 
without  taint.  Such  society  revives,  regene- 
rates :  you  feel  better  days  come  back — higher 
wishes,  purer  feelings  ;  you  desire  to  recom- 
mence your  life,  and  to  spend  what  remains  to 
you  of  days  in  a  way  more  worthy  of  an  im- 
mortal being.  To  attain  this  end,  are  you 
justified  in  overleaping  an  obstacle  of  custom — 
a  mere  conventional  impediment,  which  neither 
your  conscience  sanctifies  nor  your  judgment 
approves  V 

He  paused  for  an  answer :  and  what  was  I 
to  sayl  Oh,  for  some  good  spirit  to  suggest 
a  judicious  and  satisfactory  response  !  Vain 
aspiration !  The  west  wind  whispered  in  the 
ivy  round  me ;  but  no  gentle  Ariel  borrowed 
its  breath  as  a  medium  of  speech ;  the  birds 
sang  in  the  tree-tops  ;  hut  their  song,  however 
sweet,  was  inarticulate. 

Again  Mr.  Rochester  propounded  his  query  : 

"  Is  the  wandering  and  sinful,  but  now  rest- 
seeking  and  repentant  man,  justified  in  daring 
the  world's  opinion,  in  order  to  attach  to  him 
forever,  this  gentle,  gracious,  genial  stranger ; 
thereby  securing  his  own  peace  of  mind  and 
regeneration  of  life  1" 

"  Sir,"  I  answered,  "  a  wanderer's  repose 
or  a  sinner's  reformation  should  never  depend 
on  a  fellow-creature.  Men  and  women  die ; 
philosophers  falter  in  wisdom,  and  Christians 
in  goodness  :  if  any  one  you  know  has  suffered 
and  erred,  let  him  look  higher  than  his  equals 
for  strength  to  amend,  and  solace  to  heal." 

"  But  the  instrument — the  instrument !  God, 
who  does  the  work,  ordains  the  instrument.  I 
have  myself — I  tell  it  you  without  parable — 
heen  a  worldly,  dissipated,  restless  man  ;  and 
1  believe  I  have  found  the  instrument  for  my 
cure,  in — " 

He  paused :  the  birds  weut  on  caroling,  the 
leaves  lightly  rustling.  I  almost  wondered 
they  did  not  chock  their  songs  and  whispers  to 
catch  the  suspended  revelation  :  but  they  would 
have  had  to  wait  many  minutes — so  long  was 
the  silence  protracted.  At  last  I  looked  up  at 
the  tardy  speaker:  he  was  looking  eagerly  at 
me. 


"  Little  friend,"  said  he,  in  quite  a  changed 
tone  —  while  his  face  changed  too,  losing  all 
its  softness  and  gravity,  and  becoming  harsh 
and  sarcastic— "  you  have  noticed,  my  tender 
penchant  for  Miss  Ingram  :  don't  you  think  if  I 
married  her  she  would  regenerate  me  with  a 
vengeance  1" 

He  got  up  instantly,  went  quite  to  the  other 
end  of  the  walk,  and  when  he  came  back  he 
was  humming  a  tune. 

"  Jane,  Jane,"  said  he,  stopping  before  me, 
"  you  are  quite  pale  with  your  vigils  :  don't  you 
curse  me  for  disturbing  your  rest?" 

"Curse  you]     No,  sir." 

"  Shake  hands  in  confirmation  of  the  word. 
What  cold  fingers  !  They  were  warmer  last 
night  when  I  touched  them  at  ihe  door  of  the 
mysterious  chamber.  Jane,  when  will  you 
watch  with  me  again!" 

"  Whenever  I  can  be  useful,  sir." 

"  For  instance,  the  night  before  I  am  mar- 
ried 1  I  am  sure  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sleep. 
Will  you  promise  to  sit  up  with  me  to  bear  me 
company'!  To  you  I  can  talk  of  my  lovely 
one  ;  for  now  you  have  seen  her  and  know 
her." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  She's  a  rare  one,  is  she  not,  Jane?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"A  strapper — a  real  strapper,  Jane:  big, 
brown,  and  buxom  ;  with  hair  just  such  as  the 
ladies  of  Carthage  must  have  had.  Bless  me  ! 
there's  Dent  and  Lynn  in  the  stables  !  Go  in 
by  the  shrubbery,  through  that  wicket." 

As  I  went  one  way,  he  went  another,  and  I 
heard  him  in  the  yard,  saying,  cheeringly, 

"  Mason  got  the  start  of  you  all  this  morning-, 
he  was  gone  before  sunrise — I  rose  at  four  to 
see  him  off." 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Presentiments  are  strange  things !  and  so 
are  sympathies,  and  so  are  signs  ;  and  the  three 
combined  make  one  mystery  to  which  humani- 
ty has  not  yet  found  the  key.  I  never  laughed 
at  presentiments  in  my  life,  because  I  have  had 
strange  ones  of  my  own.  Sympathies,  I  be- 
lieve, exist  (for  instance,  between  far-distant, 
long-absent,  wholly  estranged  relatives ;  as- 
serting, notwithstanding  their  alienation,  the 
unity  of  the  source  to  which  each  traces  his 
origin),  whose  workings  baffle  mortal  compre- 
hension. And  signs,  for  aught  we  know,  may 
be  but  the  sympathies  of  nature  with  man. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl,  only  six  years  old,  ^ 
one  night  heard  Bessie  Leaven  say  to  Martha 
Abbott  that  she  had  been  dreaming  about  a  lit- 
tle child  ;  and  that  to  dream  of  children  was  a 
sure  sign  of  trouble,  either  to  one's  self  or  one's 
kin.  The  saying  might  have  worn  out  of  my 
memory,  had  not  a  circumstance  immediately 
followed  which  served  indelibly  to  fix  it  there. 
The  next  day  Bessie  was  sent  for  home  to  the 
death-bed  of  her  little  sister. 

Of  late  I  had  often  recalled  this  saying  and 
this  incident ;  for  during  the  past  week  scarcely 
a  night  had  gone  over  my  couch  that  had  not 
brought  with  it  a  dream  of  an  infant,  which  I 
sometimes  hushed  in  my  arms,  sometimes  dan- 
dled on  my  knee,  sometimes  wulched  playing 


JANE  EYRE. 


85 


"with  daisies  on  a  lawn ;  or  again,  dabbling  its 
hands  in  running  water.  It  was  a  wailing  child 
this  night,  and  a  laughing  one  the  next — now  it 
nestled  close  to  me,  and  now  it  ran  from  me  ; 
but  whatever  mood  the  apparition  evinced, 
whatever  aspect  it  wore,  it  failed  not  for  seven 
successive  nights  to  meet  me  the  moment  I 
entered  the  land  of  slumber. 

I  did  not  like  this  iteration  of  one  idea — this 
strange  recurrence  of  one  image  ;  and  I  grew 
nervous  as  bedtime  approached,  and  the  hour 
of  the  vision  drew  near.  It  was  from  compan- 
ionship with  this  baby-phantom  I  had  been 
roused  on  that  moonlight  night  when  I  heard 
the  cry  ;  and  it  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day 
following  I  was  summoned  down  stairs  by  a 
message  that  some  one  wanted  me  in  Mrs. 
Fairfax's  room.  On  repairing  thither,  I  found 
a  man  waiting  for  me,  having  the  appearance 
of  a  gentleman's  servant ;  he  was  dressed  in 
deep  mourning,  and  the  hat  he  held  in  his  hand 
was  surrounded  with  a  crape  band. 

"  I  dare  say  you  hardly  remember  me, 
miss,"  he  said,  rising  as  I  entered  ;  "  but  my 
name  is  Leaven  ;  I  lived  coachman  with  Mrs. 
Reed  when  you  were  at  Gateshead  eight,  or 
nine  years  since,  and  I  live  there  still." 

"  Oh,  Robert !  how  do  you  do  1  I  remember 
you  very  well ;  you  used  to  give  me  a  ride 
sometimes  on  Miss  Georgiana's  bay  pony. 
And  how  is  Bessie  ?  You  are  married  to 
Bessie  1" 

"  Yes,  miss — my  wife  is  very  hearty,  thank 
you  ;  she  brought  me  another  little  one  about 
two  months  since — we  have  three  now — and 
both  mother  and  child  are  thriving." 

"  And  are  the  family  well  at  the  house,  Rob- 
ert 1" 

"  I  am  sorry  I  can't  give  you  better  news  of 
them,  miss ;  they  are  very  badly  at  present — 
in  great  trouble." 

"  I  hope  no  one  is  dead,"  I  said,  glancing  at 
his  black  dress.  He,  too,  looked  down  at  the 
crape  round  his  hat,  and  replied, 

"  Mr.  John  died  yesterday  was  a  week,  at  his 
chambers  in  London." 

"Mr.  John?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  how  does  his  mother  bear  it  1" 

"  Why  you  see,  Miss  Eyre,  it  is  not  a  common 
mishap  ;  his  life  has  been  very  wild  ;  these  last 
three  years  he  gave  himself  up  to  strange  ways, 
and  his  death  was  shocking." 
•  "  I  heard  from  Bessie  he  was  not  doing 
well." 

"  Doing  well !  He  could  not  do  worse  ;  he 
ruined  his  health  and  his  estate  among  the 
worst  men  and  the  worst  women.  He  got 
into  debt  and  into  jail ;  his  mother  helped  him 
out  twice,  but  as  soon  as  he  was  free  he 
returned  to  his  old  companions  and  habits. 
His  head  was  not  strong ;  the  knaves  he  lived 
among  fooled  him  beyond  any  thing  I  ever 
heard.  He  came  down  to  Gateshead  about 
three  weeks  ago  and  wanted  missis  to  give  up 
all  to  him.  Missis  refused  ;  her  means  have 
long  been  much  reduced  by  his  extravagance  ; 
so  he  went  back  again,  and  the  next  news  was 
that  he  was  dead.  How  he  djed,  God  knows ! 
they  say  he  killed  himself." 

I  was  silent — the  tidings  were  frightful.  Rob- 
ert Leaven  resumed  : 


"  Missis  had  been  out  of  health  herself  for 
some  time  ;  she  had  got  very  stout,  but  was 
not  strong  with  it ;  and  the  loss  of  money  and 
fear  of  poverty  were  quite  breaking  her  down. 
The  information  about  Mr.  John's  death  and 
the  manner  of  it  came  too  suddenly — it  brought 
on  a  stroke.  She  was  three  days  without 
speaking  ;  but  last  Tuesday  she  seemed  rather 
better;  she  appeared. as  if  she  wanted  to  say 
something,  and  kept  making  signs  to  my  wife 
and  mumbling.  It  was  only  yesterday  morn- 
ing, however,  that  Bessie  understood  she  was 
pronouncing  your  name  ;  and  at  last  she  made 
out  the  words,  '  Bring  Jane — fetch  Jane  Eyre  ; 
I  want  to  speak  to  her.'  Bessie  is  not  sure 
whether  she  is  in  her  right  mind,  or  means  any 
thing  by  the  words  ;  but  she  told  Miss  Reed 
and  Miss  Georgiana,  and  advised  them  to  send 
for  you.  The  young  ladies  put  it  off  at  first ; 
but  their  mother  grew  so  restless,  and  said, 
'Jane,  Jane,'  so  many  times,  that  at  last  they 
consented.  I  left  Gateshead  yesterday  ;  and  if 
you  can  get  ready,  miss,  I  should  like  to  take 
you  back  with  me  early  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Yes,  Robert,  I  shall  be  ready  ;  it  seems  to 
me  that  I  ought  to  go." 

"  I  think  so  too,  miss.  Bessie  said  she  was 
sure  you  would  not  refuse  ;  but  I  suppose  you 
will  have  to  ask  leave  before  you  can  get  off1" 

"  Yes,  and  I  will  do  it  now  ;"  and  having  di- 
rected him  to  the  servants'  hall,  and  recom- 
mended him  to  the  care  of  John's  wife,  and  the 
attentions  of  John  himself,  I  went  in  search  of 
Mr.  Rochester. 

He  was  not  in  any  of  the  lower  rooms  ;  he 
was  not  in  the  yard,  the  stables,  or  the  grounds. 
I  asked  Mrs.  Fairfax  if  she  had  seen  him — yes  ; 
she  believed  he  was  playing  billiards  with  Miss 
Ingram.  To  the  billiard-room  I  hastened  ;  the 
click  of  balls  and  the  hum  of  voices  resounded 
thence  ;  Mr.  Rochester,  Miss  Ingram,  the  two 
misses  Eshton  and  their  admirers,  were  all  bus- 
ied in  the  game.  It  required  some  courage  to 
disturb  so  interesting  a  party  ;  my  errand,  how- 
ever, was  one  I  could  not  def^r,  so  I  approached 
the  master  where  he  stood  at  Miss  Ingram's 
side.  She  turned  as  I  drew  near,  and  looked 
at  me  haughtily  ;  her  eyes  seemed  to  demand. 
'"  What  can  the  creeping  creature  want  now  ?" 
and  when  I  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Mr.  Roches- 
ter," she  made  a  movement  as  if  tempted  to 
order  me  away.  I  remember  her  appearance 
at  the  moment — it  was  very  graceful  and  very 
striking ;  she  wore  a  morning  robe  of  sky-blue 
crape  ;  a  gauzy  azure  scarf  was  twisted  in  her 
hair.  She  had  been  all  animation  with  the  game, 
and  irritated  pride  did  not  lower  the  expression 
of  her  haught  lineaments. 

"  Does  that  person  want  you  1"  she  inquired 
of  Mr.  Rochester  ;  and  Mr.  Rochester  turned  to 
see  who  the  "  person"  was.  He  made  a  curious 
grimace — one  of  his  strange  and  equivocal  dem- 
onstrations— threw  down  his  cue  and  followed 
me  from  the  room. 

"  Well,  Jane  ?"  he  said,  as  he  rested  his  back 
against  the  school-room  door,  which  he  had 
shut. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  I  want  leave  of  absence 
for  a  week  or  t\Ao."- 

"  What  to  do  1     Where  to  go  1" 

"  To  see  a  sick  lady  who  has  ^ent  for  me." 

"  What  sick  lady  !     Where  does  she  live '" 


m 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  At  Gateshead,  in shire." 

" shire  ?     That  is  a  hundred  miles  off ! 

Who  may  she  be  that  sends  for  people  to  see 
her  at  that  distanced" 

"  Her  name  is  Reed,  sir — Mrs.  Reed." 

"  Reed  of  Gateshead  1  There  was  a  Reed  of 
Gateshead,  a  magistrate." 

"It  is  his  widow,  sir." 

"  And  what  have  you  to  do  with  herT  How 
do  you  know  herV 

"Mr.  Reed  was  my  uncle,  my  mother's 
brother." 

"The  deuce  he  was!  You  never  told  me 
that  before :  you  always  said  that  you  had  no 
relations." 

"None  that  would  own  me,  sir.  Mr.  Reed 
is  dead,  and  his  wife  cast  me  off." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  was  poor,  and  burdensome,  and 
she  disliked  me." 

"But  Reed  left  children!  you  must  have 
cousins  T  Sir  George  Lynn  was  talking  of  a 
Reed  of  Gateshead,  yesterday — who,  he  said, 
was  one  of  the  veriest  rascals  on  town;  and 
Ingram  was  mentioning  a  Georgiana  Reed  of 
the  same  place,  who  was  much  admired  for  her 
beauty,  a  season  or  two  ago,  in  London. 

"John  Reed  is  dead,  too,  sir:  he  ruined 
himself  and  half  ruined  his  family,  and  is  sup- 
posed to  have  committed  suicide.  The  news 
so  shocked  his  mother  that  it  brought  on  an 
apoplectic  attack." 

"  And  what  good  can  you  do  to  her  !  Non- 
sense, Jane  !  I  would  never  think  of  running  a 
hundred  miles  to  see  an  old  lady  who  will, 
perhaps,  be  dead  before  you  reach  her ;  besides, 
you  say  she  cast  you  off." 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  that  is  long  ago ;  and  when 
her  circumstances  were  very  different :  I  could 
not  be  easy  to  neglect  her  wishes  now," 

"  How  long  will  you  stay  1" 

"  As  short  a  time  as  possible,  sir." 

"  Promise  me  only  to  stay  a  week " 

"  I  had  better  not  pass  my  word ;  I  might 
h.:  obliged  to  break  it." 

"  At  all  events  you  will  come  back  ;  you  will 
not  be  induced  under  any  pretext  to  take  up  a 
pemanent  residence  with  her?" 

"Oh,  no'.  I  bhall  <je:ta;r.:v  r.eurn  if  all  be 

we::." 

"  And  who  goes  with  you  1  You  don't  travel 
a  hundred  miles  alone  V 

"  No,  sir ;  she  has  sent  her  coachman." 

"A  person  to  bo  trusted  V 

"  Yes,  sir ;  he  has  lived  ten  years  in  the 
family." 

Mr.  Rochester  meditated.  "When  do  you 
wish  to  gol" 

"  Early  to-morrow  morning,  sir." 

"Well,  you  must  have  money;  you  can't 
travel  without  money,  and  I  dare  say  you  have 
r-it  much ;  I  liavti  given  you  no  salary  yet. 
How  much  have  you  in  the  world,  Janel"  he 
arl'ed  smiling. 

drew  out  my  purse  :  a  meager  thing  it 
iv;-  .  "FiveshillingSjSir."  He  took  the  purse, 
pctred  the  hoard  into  his  palm  and  chuckled 
over  it  as  if  its  scantiness  pleased  him.  Soon 
he  produced  his  pocket-hook.  "  Ht  re,"  said  he, 
offering  me  a  note  ;  it  was  fifty  pounds,  and  he 
owed  me  but  Sfteen.  I  told  him  I  had  no 
change. 


"  I  don't  want  change  :  you  know  that. 
Take  your  wages." 

I  declmed  accepting  more  than  was  my  due. 
He  scowled  at  first ;  then,  as  if  recollecting 
something,  he  said  : 

"  Right,  right  !  Better  not  give  you  all  now  : 
you  would,  perhaps,  stay  away  three  months  if 
you  had  fifty  pounds.  "There  are  ten  ;  is  it  not 
plenty?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  but  now  you  owe  me  five." 

"  Come  back  for  it,  then  :  I  am  your  banker 
for  forty  pounds." 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  I  may  as  well  mention 
another  matter  of  business  to  you  while  I  have 
the  opportunity." 

"  Matter  of  business  ?  I'm  curious  to  hear 
it." 

"  You  have  as  good  as  informed  me,  sir,  that 
you  are  going  shortly  to  be  married  1" 

"Yes;  what  then?" 

"  In  that  case,  sir,  Adele  ought  to  go  to 
school ;  I  am  sure  you  will  perceive  the  ne- 
cessity of  it." 

"  To  get  he^  out  of  my  bride's  .way ;  who 
might  otherwise  walk  over  her  rather  too  em- 
phatically. There's  sense  in  the  suggestion  ; 
not  a  doubt  of  it :  Adele,  as  you  say,  must  go 
to  school ;  and  you,  of  course,  must  march 
straight  to — the  devil !" 

"  I  hope  not,  sir ;  but  I  must  seek  another 
situation  somewhere." 

"  In  course  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  twang  of 
voice  and, a  distortion  of  features  equally  fan- 
tastic and  ludicrous.  He  looked  at  me  sotne 
minutes. 

"  And  old  Madam  Reed,  or  the  misses,  her 
daughters,  will  be  solicited  by  you  to  seek  a 
place.  I  suppose?" 

"  No,  sir ;  I  am  not  on  such  terms  with  my 
relatives  as  would  justify  me  in  asking  favors 
of  them — but  I  shall  advertise." 

"  You  shall  walk  up  the  pyramids  of  Egypt !" 
he  growled.  "  At  your  peril  you  advertise  !  I 
wish  I  had  only  offered  you  a  sovereign  instead 
of  ten  pounds.  Give  me  back  nine  pounds, 
Jane  ;  I've  a  use  for  it." 

"And  so  have  I,  sir,"  I  returned,  putting  mj 
hands  and  my  purse  behind  me.     "  I  could  not 
's{  am  the  money  on  any  account." 

"  Liiue  ;;.;,•.  'd'"  said  he,  "refusing  me 
a  pecuniary  reqi-dt!  Give  me  five  puuKda> 
Jane." 

"  Not  five  shillings,  sir ;  nor  five  pence." 

"  Just  let  me  look  at  the  cash." 

"  No,  sir ;  you  are  not  to  be  trusted." 

"Jane  !" 

"Sir?" 

"  Promise  me  one  thing." 

"  I'll  prcunise  you  any  thing,  sir,  that  I  think 
I  am  likely  to  perform." 

"  Not  to  advertise :  and  to  trust  this  quest 
of  a  situation  to  me.     I'll  find  you  one  in  time." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  so  to  do,  sir,  if  you,  in  your 
turn,  will  promise  that  I  and  Adole  shall  bo 
boih  safe  out  of  the  house  before  your  bride 
enters  it." 

"  Very  well !  very  well !  I'll  pledge  my  word 
on  it.     You  go  to-morrow,  then  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir;  early." 

"  Shall  you  come  down  to  the  drawing-room 
after  dinner?"  . 

"  No,  sir,  I  must  prepare  for  the  journey." 


JANE  EYRE. 


87 


"Then  you  and  I  must  bid  good-bye  for  a 
little  while r* 

"  I  suppose  so,  sir." 
•    "  And  iiow  do  people  perform  that  ceremony 
of  ptirting,  Jane  1     Teach  me:  I'm   not  quite 
up  to  it." 

"  They  say  farewell ;  or  any  other  form  they 
prefer." 

"Then  say  it." 

"  Farewell,  Mr.  Rochester,  for  the  present." 

"  What  must  I  say  ?" 

"The  same,  if  you  like,  sir." 

"  Farewell,  Miss  Eyre,  for  the  present ;  is 
that  alii" 

"  Yes." 

"It  seems  stingy  to  my  notions,  and  dry, 
and  unfriendly.  I  should  like  something  else  : 
a  little  addition  to  the  rite.  If  one  shook  hands, 
for  instance  ;  but  no,  that  would  not  content  me 
either.  So  you'll  do  no  more  than  say  '  fare- 
well.' Jane  1" 

"It  is  enough  sir;  as  much  good-will  may 
be  conveyed  In  one  hearty  word  as  in  many." 

"  Very  likely  ;  but  it  is  blank  and  cool — 
•farewell.'" 

"How  long  is  he  going  to  stand  with  his 
back  against  that  door?"  I  asked  myself;  "I 
want  to  commence  my  packing."  Tlje  dinner- 
bell  rung,  and  suddenly  away  he  bolted,  with- 
out another  syllable  :  1  saw  him  no  more  during 
the  day,  and  was  off  before  he  had  risen  in  the 
morning. 

I  reached  the  lodge  at  Gateshead  about  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  first  of  May  ;  I 
stepped  in  there  before  going  up  to  the  Hall.  It 
was  very  clean  and  neat ;  the  ornamental  win- 
dows were  hung  with  little  white  curtains,  the 
floor  was  spotless,  the  grate  and  fireirons  were 
burnished  bright,  and  the  fire  burned  clear. 
Bessie  sat  on  the  hearth,  nursing  her  last-born, 
and  Robert  and  his  sister  played  quietly  in  a 
corner. 

"  Bless  you  !  I  knew  you  would  come  !"  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Leaven,  as  I  entered. 

"  Yes,  Bessie,"  said  1,  after  I  had  kissed  her ; 
"  and  I  trust  I  am  not  too  late.  How  is  Mrs. 
Reed  1     Alive  still,  I  hope." 

"  Yes,  she  is  alive,  and  more  sensible  and 
collected  than  she  was.  The  doctor  says  she 
may  linger  a  week  or  two  yet ;  but  he  hardly 
thinks  she  will  finally  recover." 

"  Has  she  mentioned  me  lately  1" 

"Sli"e  was  talking  of  you  only  this  morning, 
and  wishing  you  would  come  ;  but  she  is  sleep- 
ing now,  or  was  ten  minutes  ago,  when  I  was 
up  at  the  house.  She  generally  lies  in  a  kind 
of  lethargy  all  the  afternoon,  and  wakes  up 
about  six  or  seven.  Will  you  rest  yourself  here 
an  hour,  miss,  and  then  I  will  go  up  with  jou  1" 

Robert  here  entered,  and  Bessie  laid  her 
sleeping  child  in  the  cradle  and  went  to  wel- 
come him  ;  afterward  she  insisted  on  my  taking 
off  my  bonnet  and  having  some  tea,  for  she  said 
I  looked  pale  and  tired.  I  was  glad  to  accept 
her  hospitality,  and  I  submitted  to  be  relieved 
of  my  traveling  garb  just  as  passively  as  I  used 
to  let  her  undress  me  when  a  child. 

Old  times  crowded  fast  hack  on  me  as  I 
watched  her  bustling  about — setting  out  the 
tea-tray  with  her  best  china,  cutting  brcud  and 
butter,  toasting  a  tea-cake,  and,  between  whiles, 
giving  iiltlti  Robert  or  Jane  an  occasional  tap 


or  push,  ju-st  aa  she  used  to  give  me  in  former 
days.  Bessie  had  retained  her  quick  temper 
as  well  as  htr  light  foot  and  good  looks. 

T;'a  ready,  I  was  goiii^^  to  appr:);ich  the  table  ; 
but  she  desired  me  to  sit  still,  qiijie  in  her  old, 
peremptory  tones.  I  must  be  served  at  the 
fireside,  §he  said  ;  and  she  placed  before  me  a 
little  round  stand  with  my  cup  and  a  plate  of 
toast,  absolutely  as  she  used  to  accommodate 
me  with  some  privately  purloined  dainty  on  a 
nursery  chair  ;  and  I  smiled  and  obeyed  her  as 
in  by-gone  days. 

She  wanted  to  know  if  I  was  happy  at  Thorn-* 
field  Hall,  and  what  sort  of  a  person  the  mis- 
tress was  ;  and  when  I  told  her  there  was  only 
a  master,  whether  he  was  a  nice  gentleman, 
and  if  I  liked  him.  I  told  her  he  was  rather  an 
ugly  man,  but  quite  a  gentleman  ;  and  that  he 
treated  me  kindly,  and  I  was  content.  Then  I 
went  on  to  describe  to  her  (he  gay  company 
that  had  lately  been  staying  at  the  house;  and 
to  these  details  Bessie  listened  with  interest; 
they  were  precisely  of  the  kind  she  relished. 

In  such  conversation  an  hour  was  soon  gone  ; 
Bessie  restored  to  me  my  bonnet,  &c.,  and,  ac- 
companied by  her,  I  quitted  the  lodge  for  the 
Hall.  It  was  also  accompanied  by  her  that  I 
had,  nearly  nine  years  ago,  walked  down  the 
path  I  was  now  ascending.  On  a  dark,  misty, 
raw  morning  in  January,  I  had  left  a  hostile 
roof  with  a  desperate  and  embittered  heart — a 
sense  of  outlawry  and  almost  of  reprobaliou— 
to  seek  the  chilly  harborage  of  Lowood,  that 
bourn  so  far  away  and  unexplored.  The  same 
hostile  roof  now  again  rose  before  me  ;  my  pros- 
pects were  doubtful  yet ;  and  J  had  yet  an  ach- 
ing hea'.t.  I  still  fell  as  a  wanderer  on  the  face 
of  the  earth  ;  but  I  experienced  firmer  trust  in 
myself  and  my  own  powers,  and  less  withering 
dread  of  oppression.  The  gaping  wound  of  my 
wrongs,  too,  was  now  quite  healed,  and  the 
flame  of  resentment  extinguished. 

"  You  shall  go  into  the  breakfast-room  first," 
said  Bessie,  as  she  preceded  me  through  the 
hall;  "the  young  ladies  will, he  there." 

In  another  moment  I  was  within  that  apart- 
ment. There  was  every  article  of  furniture 
looking  just  as  it  did  on  the  morning  I  was  first 
introduced  to  Mr.  Brocklehurst — the  very  rug' 
he  had  stood  upon  still  covered  the  hearth. 
Glancing  at  the  book-cases,  I  thought  I  could 
distinguish  the  two  volumes  of  Bewick's  Brit- 
ish Birds  occupying  their  old  place  on  the  third 
shelf,  and  Gulliver's  Travels  and  the  Arabian 
Nights  ranged  just  above.  The  inanimate  ob- 
jects were  not  changed,  but  the  living  things 
had  altered  past  recognition 

Two  young  ladies  appeared  before  me ;  one 
very  tall — almost  as  tall  as  Miss  Ingram — very 
tiiin,  too,  with  a  sallow  face  and  severe  mien. 
There  was  something  ascetic  in  her  look,  which 
was  augmented  by  the  extreme  plainness  of  a 
strait-skirted,  black  stuff  dress,  a  starched  linen 
collar,  hair  combed  away  from  the  temples,  and 
the  nun-like  ornament  of  a  string  of  ebony  beads 
and  a  crucifix.  This,  I  felt  sure,  was  Eliza, 
though  I  could  trace  little  resemblance  to  her 
former  self  in  that  elongated  and  colorless 
visage. 

The  other  was  as  certainly  Georgiana  ;  but 
not  the  Georgiana  I  remembered — the  slim  and 
fairy-like  girl  of  eleven.    This  was  a  full-blown. 


88 


JANE  EYRE. 


very  plump  damsel,  fair  as  wax-work,  with 
handsome  and  regular  features,  languishing 
blue  eyes,  and  ringleted  yellow  hair.  The  hue 
of  her  dress  was  black  too  ;  but  its  fashion  was 
so  different  from  her  sister's — so  much  more 
flowing  and  becoming — it  looked  as  stylish  as 
the  other's  looked  puritanical. 

In  each  of  the  sisters  there  was  one  trait  of 
the  mother,  and  only  one  ;  the  thin  and  pallid 
elder  daughter  had  her  parent's  Cairngorm  eye  ; 
the  blooming  and  luxuriant  younger  girl  had  her 
contour  of  jaw  and  chin,  perhaps  a  little  soft- 
ened, but  still  imparting  an  indescribable  hard- 
ness to  the  countenance,  otherwise  so  volup- 
tuous and  buxom. 

Both  ladies,  as  I  advanced,  rose  to  welcome 
me,  and  both  addressed  me  by  the  name  of 
"Miss  Eyre."  Eliza's  greeting  was  delivered 
in  a  short,  abrupt  voice,  without  a  smile  ;  and 
then  she  sat  down  again,  fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
fire,  and  seemed  to  forget  me.  Georgiana 
added  to  her  "  How  d'ye  do  1"  several  common- 
places about  my  journey,  the  weather,  and  so 
on,  uttered  in  rather  a  drawling  tone,  and  ac- 
companied by  sundry  side-glances  that  meas- 
ured me  from  head  to  foot — now  traversing  the 
folds  of  my  drab  merino  pelisse,  and  now  lin- 
gering on  the  plain  trimming  of  my  cottage 
bonnet.  Young  ladies  have  a  remarkable  way 
of  letting  you  know  that  they  think  you  a 
"quiz,"  without  actually  saying  the  words.  A 
certain  superciliousness  of  look,  coolness  of 
manner,  nonchalance  of  tone,  express  fully  their 
sentiments  on  the  point,  without  committing 
them  by  any  positive  rudeness  in  word  or  deed. 

A  sneer,  however,  whether  covert  or  open, 
had  now  no  longer  that  power  over  me  it  once 
possessed  ;  as  I  sat  between  my  cousins,  I  was 
surprised  to  find  how  easy  I  felt  under  the  total 
neglect  of  the  one  and  the  semi-sarcastic  atten- 
tions of  the  other — Eliza  did  not  mortify,  nor 
Georgiana  ruffle  me.  The  fact  was,  I  had 
other  things  to  think  about;  within  the  last 
few  months  feelings  had  been  stirred  in  me  so 
much  more  potent  than  any  they  could  raise — 
pains  and  pleasures  so  much  more  acute  and 
exquisite  had  been  excited  than  any  it  was  in 
their  power  to  inflict  or  bestow — that  their  airs 
gave  me  no  concern  either  for  good  or  bad. 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Reed !"  I  asked  soon,  looking 
calmly  at  Georgiana,  who  thought  fit  to  bridle 
at  the  direct  address,  as  if  it  were  an  unexpect- 
ed liberty. 

"  Mrs.  Reed  1  Ah  !  mamma  you  mean  ;  she 
,  is  extremely  poorly  ;  I  doubt  if  you  can  see  her 
to-night." 

"If,"  said  I,  "  you  would  just  step  up  stairs 
and  tell  her  I  am  come,  I  should  be  much 
obliged  to  you." 

Georgiana  almost  started,  and  she  opened 
her  blue  eyes  wdd  and  wide.  "  I  know  she  had 
a  particular  wish  to  see  me,"  I  added,  "and  I 
would  not  defer  attending  to  her  desire  longer 
than  is  absolutely  necessary." 

"  Mamma  dislikes  being  disturbed  in  an  even- 
ing," remarked  Eliza.  I  soon  rose,  quietly  took 
oflfmy  bonnet  and  gloves,  uninvited,  and  said  1 
would  just  step  out  to  Bessie,  who  was,  I  dared 
say,  in  the  kitchen,  and  ask  her  to  ascertain 
whether  Mrs.  Reed  was  disposed  to  receive  me 
or  not  tonight.  I  went,  and,  having  found 
Bessie  and  dispatched  her  on  my  errand,  I  pro- 


ceeded to  take  further  measures.  It  had  here- 
tofore been  my  habit  always  to  shrink  from  ar- 
rogance ;  received  as  I  had  been  to-day,  I  should, 
a  year  ago,  have  resolved  to  quit  Gateshead  tM 
very  next  morning ;  now,  it  was  disclosed  to 
me  all  at  once,  that  that  would  be  a  foolish  plan. 
I  had  taken  a  journey  of  a  hundred  miles  to  see 
my  aunt,' and  I  must  stay  with  her  till  she  wag 
better  or  dead ;  as  to  her  daughters'  pride  or 
folly,  I  must  put  it  on  one  side — make  myself 
independent  of  it.  So  I  addressed  the  house- 
keeper— asked  her  to  show  me  a  room,  told  her 
I  should  probably  be  a  visitor  here  for  a  week 
or  two,  had  my  trunk  conveyed  to  my  chamber, 
and  followed  it  thither  myself  I  met  Bessie 
on  the  landing. 

"  Missis  is  awake,"  said  she  ;  "  I  have  told 
her  you  are  here ;  come  and  let  us  see  if  she 
will  know  you." 

I  did  not  need  to  be  guided  to  the  well-known 
room,  to  which  I  had  so  often  been  summoned 
for  chastisement  or  reprimand  in  former  days. 
I  hastened  before  Bessie  and  softly  opened  the 
door ;  a  shaded  light  stood  on  the  table,  for  it 
was  now  getting  dark.  There'  was  the  great 
four-post  bedstead  with  amber  hangings  as  of 
old  ;  there  the  toilet-table,  the  arm-chair,  and 
the  footstool,  at  which  I  had  a  hundred  times 
been  sentenced  to  kneel,  to  ask  pardon  for  of- 
fenses by  me  uncommitted.  I  looked  into  a 
certain  corner  near,  half  expecting  to  see  the 
slim  outline  of  a  once  dreaded  switch,  which 
used  to  lurk  there,  waiting  to  leap  out,  imp-like, 
and  lace  my  quivering  palm  or  shrinking  neck. 
I  approached  the  bed  ;  I  opened  the  curtains 
and  leaned  over  the  high-piled  pillows. 

Well  did  I  remember  Mrs.  Reed's  face,  and 
I  eagerly  sought  the  familiar  image.  It  is 
a  happy  thing  that  time  quells  the  longings  of 
vengeance,  and  hushes  the  promptings  of  rage 
and  aversion  :  I  had  left  this  woman  in  bitter- 
ness and  hate,  and  I  came  back  to  her  now 
with  no  other  emotion  than  a  sort  of  ruth  for 
her  great  sufferings,  and  a  strong  yearning  to 
forget  and  forgive  all  injuries — to  be  reconciled, 
and  clasp  hands  in  amity. 

The  well-known  face  was  there,  stern,  re- 
lentless as  ever ;  there  was  that  peculiar  eye 
which  nothing  could  melt,  and  the  somewhat 
raised,  imperious,  despotic  eyebrow.  How 
often  had  it  lowered  on  mc  menace  and  hate  [ 
and  how  the  recollection  of  childhood's  terrors 
and  sorrows  revived  as  I  traced  its  harsh  line 
now !  And  yet  I  stooped  down  and  kissed 
her  ;  she  looked  at  me. 

"  Is  this  Jane  Eyre  V  she  said. 

"Yes.  Aunt  Reed.  How  are  you,  dear 
auntr' 

I  had  once  vowed  that  I  would  never  call 
her  aunt  again  ;  I  thought  it  no  sin  to  f6rget 
and  break  that  vow  now.  My  fingers  had 
fastened  on  her  hand  which  lay  outside  the 
sheet  ;  had  she  pressed  mine  kindly,  I  should 
at  that  moment  have  experienced  true  pleas- 
ure. But  unimpressionable  natures  are  not  so 
soon  softened,  nor  are  natural  antipathies  so 
readily  eradicated  ;  Mrs.  Reed  took  her  hand 
away,  and  turning  her  face  rather  from  me, 
she  remarked  that  the  night  was  warm,  Agaia 
she  regarded  me,  so  icily,  I  felt  at  once  that 
her  opinion  of  me— her  feeling  toward  me — 
was  unchanged  and  unchangeable      I  knew  by 


JANE  EYRE. 


89 


I 


her  stony  eye,  opaque  to  tenderness,  indissoluble 
to  tears,  that  she  was  resolved  to  consider  me 
bad  to  the  last ;  because  to  believe  rne  good, 
"would  give  her  no  generous  pleasure,  only  a 
sense  of  mortification. 

I  felt  pain,  and  then  I  felt  ire,  and  then  I  felt 
a  determination  lo  subdue  her  ;  to  be  her  mis- 
tress in  spite  both  of  her  nature  and  her  will. 
My  tears  had  risen,  just  as  in  childhood  ;  I  or- 
dered them  back  to  their  source.  I  brought  a 
chair  to  the  bed-head  ;  I  sat  down  and  leaned 
over  the  pillow. 

"  You  sent  for  me,"  I  said,  "  and  I  am  here, 
and  it  is  my  intention  to  stay  till  I  see  how  you 
get  on." 

"  Oh,  of  course  !  You  have  seen  my  daugh- 
ters?' 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  you  may  tell  them  I  wish  you  lo 
stay,  till  I  can  talk  some  things  over  with  you 
I  have  on  my  mind  ;  to-night  it  is  too  late  ; 
and  I  have  a  difficulty  in  recalling  them.  But 
there  was  something  I  wished  to  say — let  me 
see — " 

The  wandering  look  and  changed  utterance 
told  what  wreck  had  taken  place  in  her  once 
vigorous  frame.  Turning  restlessly,  she  drew 
the  bed-clothes  round  her ;  my  elbow,  resting 
on  a  corner  of  the  quilt,  fixed  it  down  ;  she 
was  at  once  irritated. 

"Sit  up!"  said  she,  "don't  annoy  me  with 
noldmg  the  clothes  fast ;  are  you  Jane  EyreV 

"  I  am  Jane  Eyre." 

"I  have  had  more  trouble  with  that  child 
than  any  one  would  believe.  Such  a  burden 
to  be  left  on  my  hands,  and  so  much  annoyance 
as  she  caused  me,  daily  and  hourly,  with  her 
incomprehensible  disposition,  and  her  sudden 
starts  of  temper,  and  her  continual,  unnatural 
watchings  of  one's  movements  !  I  declare  she 
talked  to  me  once  like  something  mad,  or  like  a 
iiend ;  no  child  ever  spoke  or  looked  as  she 
did  :  ,1  was  glad  to  get  her  away  from  the 
house.  What  did  they  do  with  her  at  Lowood  1 
The  fever  broke  out  there,  and  many  of  the 
pupils  died.  She,  however,  did  not  die ;  but  I 
said  she  did  :  I  wish  she  had  died  !" 

"  A  strange  wish,  Mrs.  Reed  :  why  do  you 
hate  her  sol" 

"  I  had  a  dislike  to  her  mother,  always ;  for 
she  was  my  husband's  only  sister,  and  a  great 
favorite  with  him  ;  he  opposed  the  family's  dis- 
owning her  when  she  made  her  low  marriage  ; 
and  when  news  came  of  her  death,  he  wept 
like  a  simpleton.  He  would  send  for  the  baby, 
though  I  entreated  him  rather  to  put  it  out  to 
nurse  and  pay  for  its  maintenance.  I  hated  it 
the  first  time  I  set  my  eyes  on  it,  a  sickly, 
whining,  pining  thing  !  It  would  wail  in  its 
cradle  all  night  long,  not  screaming  heartily 
like  any  other  child,  but  whimpering  and  moan- 
ing. Reed  pitied  it,  and  he  used  to  nurse  it 
and  notice  it  as  if  it  had  been  his  own  ;  more, 
indeed,  than  he  ever  noticed  his  own  at  that 
age.  He  would  try  to  make  my  children  friend- 
ly to  the  little  beggar ;  the  darlings  could  not 
bear  it,  and  he  was  angry  with  them  when  they 
showed  their  dislike.  In  his  last  illness,  he  had 
it  brought  continually  to  his  bedside  ;  and  but 
an  hour  before  he  died,  he  bound  me  by  a  vow 
to  keep  the  creature.  I  would  as  soon  have 
been  charged  with  a  pauper  brat  out  of  a  work- 


house ;  but  he  was  weak,  naturally  weak. 
John  does  not  at  all  resemble  his  father,  and  I  am 
glad  of  it :  John  is  like  me  and  like  my  brothers, 
he  is  quite  a  Gibson.  Oh,  I  wish  he  would 
cease  tormenting  me  with  letters  for  money  ! 
I  have  no  more  money  to  give  him,  we  are 
getting  poor.  I  must  send  away  half  the  serv- 
ants and  shut  up  part  of  the  house,  or  let  it 
oflT.  I  can  never  submit  to  do  that ;  yet  how 
are  we  to  get  on  1  Two  thirds  of  my  income 
goes  in  paying  the  interest  of  mortgages.  John 
gambles  dreadfully,  and  always  loses,  poor  hoy  ! 
He  is  beset  by  sharpers  ;  John  is  sunk  and  de- 
graded, his  look  is  frightful,  I  feel  ashamed  for 
him  when  I  see  him." 

She  was  getting  much  excited.  "  I  think  I 
had  better  leave  her  now,"  said  I  to  Bessie, 
who  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed. 

"  Perhaps  you  had,  miss  ;  but  she  often  talks 
in  this  way  toward  night ;  in  the  morning  she 
is  calmer." 

I  rose.  "Stop!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Reed. 
"There  is  another  thing  I  wished  to  say.  He 
threatens  me — he  continually  threatens  me 
with  his  own  death  or  mine ;  and  I  dream 
sometimes  that  I  see  him  laid  out  with  a  great 
wound  in  his  throat,  or  with  a  swelled  and 
blackened  face.  I  am  come  to  a  strange  pass  ; 
I  have  heavy  troubles.  What  is  to  be  done  ? 
How  is  the  money  to  be  had  1" 

Bessie  now  endeavored  to  persuade  her  to 
take  a  sedative  draught :  she  succeeded  with 
difficulty.  Soon  after,  Mrs.  Reed  grew  more 
composed,  and  sunk  into  a  dozing  state.  I  then 
left  her. 

More  than  ten  days  elapsed  before  I  had 
again  any  conversation  with  her.  She  contin- 
ued either  delirious  or  lethargic,  and  the  doctor 
forbade  every  thing  which  could  painfully  excite 
her.  Meantime,  I  got  on  as  well  as  I  could 
with  Georgiana  and  Eliza.  They  were  very 
cold,  indeed,  at  first.  Eliza  would  sit  half  the 
day  sewing,  reading,  or  writing,  and  scarcely _ 
utter  a  word  either  to  me  or  her  sister.  Geor- 
giana would  chatter  nonsense  to  her  canary- 
bird  by  the  hour,  and  take  no  notice  of  me. 
But  I  was  determined  not  to  seem  at  a  loss  for 
occupation  or  amusement ;  I  had  brought  my 
drawing  materials  with  me,  and  they  served 
me  for  both. 

Provided  with  a  case  of  pencils,  and  some 
sheets  of  paper,  I  used  to  take  a  seat  apart 
from  them,  near  the  window,  and  busy  myself 
in  sketching  fancy  vignets,  representing  any 
scene  that  happened  momentarily  to  shape 
itself  in  the  ever-shifting  kaleidoscope  of  im- 
agination :  a  glimpse  of  sea  between  two  rocks  ; 
the  rising  moon,  and  a  ship  crossing  its  disk ; 
a  group  of  reeds  and  water-flags,  and  a  naiad's 
head,  crowned  with  lotus-flowers,  rising  out 
of  them  ;  an  elf  sitting  in  a  hedge-sparrow's 
nest,  under  a  wreath  of  hawthorn-bloom. 

One  morning  I  fell  to  sketching  a  face  ;  what 
sort  of  a  face  it  was  to  be  1  did  not  care  or 
know.  I  took  a  soft  black  pencil,  gave  it  a 
broad  point,  and  worked  away.  Soon  I  had 
traced  on  the  paper  a  broad  and  prominent  fore- 
head, and  a  square  lower  outline  of  visage ;  that 
contour  gave  me  pleasure  ;  my  fingers  proceed- 
ed actively  to  fill  it  with  features.  Strongly 
marked  horizontal  eyebrows  must  be  traced 
under  that  brow  ;  then  followed,  naturally,  a 


90 


JANE  EYRE. 


well-defined  nose,  willi  a  straight  ridge  and 
full  nostrils;  then  a  flexible-looiting  mouth,  by 
no  means  narrow  ;  then  a  firm  chin,  with  a 
decided  cleft  down  the  middle  of  it :  of  course, 
some  black  whiskers  were  wauled,  and  some 
jetty  hair,  tufted  on  the  temples,  and  waved 
above  the  forehead.  Now  for  the  eyes  ;  I  had 
left  them  to  the  last,  because  they  required  the 
most  careful  working.  I  drew  them  large  ;  I 
shaped  them  well ;  the  eyelashes  I  traced  long 
and  somber ;  the  irids  lustrous  and  large. 
•'  Good  !  but  not  quite  the  thing,"  I  thought,  as 
I  surveyed  the  effect ;  "  they  want  more  force 
and  spirit ;"  and  I  wrought  the  shades  blacker, 
that  the  lights  might  flash  more  brilliantly — a 
happy  touch  or  two  secured  success.  There,  I 
had  a  friend's  face  under  my  gaze ;  and  what 
did  it  signify  that  those  young  ladies  turned 
their  hacks  on  mel  I  looked  at  it ;  I  smiled  at 
the  speaking  likeness  ;  I  was  absorbed  and  con- 
tent. 

"  Is  that  a  portrait  of  some  one  you  know  ■?" 
asked  Eliza,  who  had  approached  me  unnoticed. 
I  responded  that  it  was  merely  a  fancy  head, 
and  hurried  it  beneath  the  other  sheets.  Of 
course,  I  lied  ;  it  was,  in  fact,  a  very  faithful 
representation  of  Mr.  Rochester.  But  what 
was  that  to  her;  or  to  any  one  but  myself^ 
Georgiana  also  advanced  to  look.  The  other 
drawings  pleased  her  much,  but  she  called  that 
an  "  ugly  man."  They  both  seemed  surprised 
at  my  skill.  I  offered  to  sketch,  their  portraits  ; 
and  each,  in  turn,  sat  for  a  pencil  outline. 
Then  Georgiana  produced  her  album.  I  prom- 
ised to  contribute  a  water-color  drawing ; 
Ibis  put  her  at  once  into  good-humor.  She 
proposed  a  walk  in  the  grounds.  Before  we 
had  been  out  two  hours,  we  were  deep  in  a 
confidential  conversation  ;  she  had  favored  me 
with  a  description  of  the  brilliant  winter  she 
had  spent  in  London  two  seasons  ago — of  the 
admiration  she  had  there  exciled — the  atten- 
tion she  had  received  ;  and  I  even  got  hints  of 
the  tilled  conquest  she  had  made.  In  the 
course  of  the  afternoon  and  evening  these 
hints  were  enlarged  on  ;  various  soft  conver- 
sations were  reported,  and  sentimental  scenes 
represented;  and,  in  short,  a  volume  of  a  novel 
of  fashionable  'life  was  that  day  improvised  by 
her  for  my  benefit.  The  communications  were 
renewed  from  day  to  day  ;  they  always  ran  on 
the  same  theme — herself,  her  loves,  and  woes. 
It  was  strange  she  never  once  adverted  either 
to  her  mother's  illness  or  her  brother's  death, 
or  the  present  gloomy  stale  of  the  family  pros- 
pects. Her  mind  seemed  wholly  taken  up 
with  reminiscences  of  past  gayety,'and  aspira- 
rations  after  dissipations  to  come.  She  pass- 
ed about  five  minutes  each  day  in  her  mother's 
sick-room,  and  no  more. 

Eliza  still  spoke  little  ;  she  had  evidently  no 
time  to  talk.  1  never  saw  a  busier  person 
than  she  seemed  to  be ;  yet  it  was  difficult  to 
say  what  she  did  ;  or,  rather,  to  discover  any 
result  of  her  diligence.  She  had  an  alarm  to 
call  her  up  early.  I  know  not  how  she  oc- 
cupied herself  before  breakfast,  but  after  that 
meal  she  divided  her  lime  into  regular  por- 
tions; and  each  hour  had  its  allotted  task. 
Three  limes  a-day  she  studied  a  little  book, 
which  I  found,  on  inspection,  was  a  Common 
Prayer  Bolk.    I  asked  her  once  what  was  the 


great  attraction  of  that  volume,  and  she  said 
"  the  Rubric."  Three  hours  she  gave  to  stitch- 
ing, with  gold  thread,  the  border  of  a  square 
crimspn  cloth,  almost  large  enough  for  a  car- 
pet. In  answer  to  my  inquiries  after  the  use 
of  this  article,  she  informed  me  it  was  a  cov- 
ering for  the  altar  of  a  new  church  lately  erect- 
ed near  Gateshead.  Two  hours  she  devoted 
to  her  diary  ;  two  to  working  by  herself  in  the 
kitchen-garden;  and  one  to  the  regulation  of 
her  accounts.  She  seemed  to  want  no  com- 
pany— no  conversation.  I  Relieve  she  was 
happy  in  her  way  ;  this  routine  sufficed  to  her ; 
and  nothing  annoyed  her  so  much  as  the  oc- 
currence of  any  incident  which  forced  her  to 
vary  its  clock-work  regularity." 

She  told  me  o-ne  evening,  when  more  dis- 
posed to  be  communicative  than  usual,  that 
John's  conduct,  and  the  threatened  ruin  of  the 
family,  had  been  a  source  of  profound  affliction 
to  her;  but  she  had  now,  she  said,  settled  her 
mind,  and  formed  her  resolution.  Her  own 
fortune  she  had  taken  care  to  secure;  and 
when  her  mother  died — and  it  was  wholly  im- 
probable, she  tranquilly  remarked,  that  sho 
should  either  recover  or  linger  long,  she  would 
execute  a  long-cherished  project — seek  a  re- 
tirement where  punctual  habits  would  be  per- 
manently secured  from  disturbance,  and  place 
safe  barriers  between  herself  and  a  frivolous 
world.  I  asked  if  Georgiana  would  accom- 
pany her. 

"  Of  course  not.  Georgiana  and  she  had 
nothing  in  common ;  they  never  had  had.  Sho 
would  not  be  burdened  with  her  society  for  any 
consideration.  Georgiana  should  take  her  own 
course ;  and  she,  Eliza,  would  take  hers." 

Georgiana,  when  not  unburdening  her  heart 
to  me,  spent  most  of  her  time  in  lying  on  the 
sofa,  fretting  about  the  dullness  of  the  house, 
and  wishing  over  and  over  again  that  her  aunt 
Gibson  would  send  her  an  invitation  up  to 
town.  "  It  would  be  so  much  better,"  she 
said,  "  if  she  could  only  get  out  of  the  way  for 
a  month  or  two,  till  all  was  over."  I  did  not 
ask  what  she  meant  by  "  all  being  over,"  but  I 
suppose  she  referred  to  the  expected  decease 
of  her  mother,  and  the  gloomy  sequel  of  funeral 
rites.  Eliza  generally  look  no  more  notice  of 
her  sister's  indolence  and  complaints  than  if  no 
such  murmuring,  lounging  object  had  been  be- 
fore her.  One  day,  however,  as  she  put  away 
her  account-book  and  unfolded  her  embroidery, 
she  suddenly  took  her  up  thus : 

"  Georgiana,  a  more  vain  and  absurd  animal 
than  you  was  certainly  never  allowed  to  cum- 
ber the  earth.  You  had  no  right  to  be  born  ; 
for  you  make  no  use  of  life.  Instead  of  living 
for,  in,  and  with  yourself,  as  a  reasonable  be- 
ing ought,  you  seek  only  to  fasten  your  feeble- 
ness on  some  other  person's  strength  ;  if  no 
one  can  be  found  willing  to  burden  her  or  him- 
self with  such  a  fat,  weak,  puffy,  useless  thing, 
you  cry  out  that  you  are  ill-treated,  neglected, 
miserable.  Then,  too,  existence  for  you  must 
be  a  scene  of  continual  change  and  excitement, 
or  else  the  world  is  a  dungeon :  you  must  be 
admired,  you  must  be  cointed,  you  must  be 
flattered — you  must  have  music,  dancing,  and 
society — or  you  languish,  you  die  away.  Have 
you  no  sense  to  devise  a  system  which  will 
make  you  mdependenl  of  all  eflbrls,  and  all 


JANE  EYRE. 


91 


wili$,  but  your  own  1  Take  one  day  ;  share  it 
into  sections ;  to  each  section  apportion  its 
task  ;  leave  no  stray  unemployed  quarters  of  an 
hour,  ten  minutes,  five  minutes — include  all ; 
do  each  piece  of  business  in  its  turn  wiib 
method,  with  rigid  regularity.  The  day  will 
close  almost  before  you  are  aware  it  has  be- 
gun ;  and  you  are  indebted  to  no  one  for  help- 
ing you  to  gel  rid  of  one  vacant  moment :  yuu 
have  had  toseek  noone'scompany,conversation, 
sympathy,  forbearance;  you  have  lived,  in  sliort, 
as  an  independent  being  ought  to  do.  Take  this 
advice  :  the  first  and  last  I  shall  ofler  you  ;  then 
you  will  not  want  me  or  any  one  else,  happen 
what  may.  •  Neglect  it — go  on  as  heretofore, 
craving,  whining,  and  idlmg — and  sufTer  the 
results  of  your  idiocy,  however  bad  and  insuf- 
ferable they  niay  be.  I  tell  you  this  plainly; 
and  listen:  for  though  I  shall  no  more  repeat  what 
I  am  now  about  to  say,  I  shall  steadily  act  on 
it.  After  my  mother's  death,  I  wash  my  hands 
of  you;  from  the  day  her  coffin  is  carried  to  the 
vault  in  Gateshead  church,  you  and  I  will  be  as 
separate  as  if  we  had  never  known  each  other. 
You  need  not  tbink  that,  because  we  chanced 
to  be  born  of  the  same  parents,  I  shall  sufl'er 
vou  to  fasten  me  down  by  even  the  feeblest 
claim;  I  tell  you  this — if  the  whole  human 
race,  ourselves  excepted,  were  swept  away, 
and  we  two  stood  alone  on  the  earth,  I  would 
leave  you  in  the  old  world,  and  betake  myself 
to  the  new  "     She  closed  her  lips. 

"  You  might  have  spared  yourself  the  trouble 
of  delivering  that  tirade,"  answered  Georgiana. 
"  Every  body  knows  you  are  the  most  selfish, 
heartless  creature  in  existence ;  and  /  know 
your  spiteful  hatred  toward  me ;  I  have  had  a 
specimen  of  it  before  in  the  trick  you  played 
me  about  Lord  Edwin  Vere  ;  you  could  not 
bear  me  to  be  raised  above  you,  to  have  a  title, 
to  be  received  into  circles  where  you  dare  not 
show  your  face,  and  so  you  acted  the  spy  and 
informer,  and  ruined  my  prospects  forever." 
Georgiana  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  blew 
her  nose  for  an  hour  afterward  ;  Eliza  sat  cold, 
impassible,  and  assiduously  industrious. 

True,  generous  feeling  is  made  small  ac- 
count of  by  some  ;  but  here  were  two  natures 
rendered,  the  one  intolerably  acrid,  the  other 
despicably  savorless  for  the  want  of  it.  Feeling 
without  judgment  is  a  washy  draught  indeed  ; 
but  judgment  untempercd  by  feeling  is  too  bit- 
ter and  husky  a  morsel  for  human  deglutition. 

It  was  a  wet  and  windy  afternoon  :  Georgi- 
fina  had  fallen  asleep  on  the  sofa  over  the  pe- 
•'i.sal  of  a  novel;  Eliza  was  gone  to  attend 
:.  samt's-day  service  at  the  new  church — for 
:;u  matters  of  religion  she  was  a  rigid  formal- 
ist ;  no  weather  ever  prevented  the  punctual 
discharge  of  what  she  considered  her  devo- 
tional duties;  fair  or  foul,  she  went  to  church 
thrice  every  Sunday,  and  as  often  on  week  days 
as  there  were  prayers. 

1  bethought  myself  to  go  up  stairs  and  see 
how  the  dying  woman  sped,  who  lay  there  al- 
most unheeded  ;  the  very  servants  paid  her  but 
a  remittent  attention  ;  the  hired  nurse,  being 
little  looked  after,  would  slip  out  of  the  room 
whenever  she  could.  Bessie  was  failhlul ;  but 
she  had  her  own  family  to  mind,  and  could  only 
oorae  occasionally  to  the  Hall.  I  found  the 
sick-room  anwatched,  as  I  had  expected  ;  no 


nurse  wasi  there ;  the  patienl  lay  still,  and 
seemingly  lethargic;  her  livid  face  sunk  in  tho 
pillows  ;  the  fire  was  dying  in  the  grate.  I  re- 
newed the  fuel,  rearranged  the  bed-clothes, 
gazed  awhile  on  her  who  could  not  now  gaze 
on  me,  and  then  I  moved  away  to  the  window. 

The  rain  beat  strongly  against  the  panes,  the 
wind  blew  tempestuously.  "  One  lies  there,"' 
I  thought,  "  who  will  so(m  be  beyond  the  war 
of  earthly  elements.  Whither  will  thai  spirit 
— now  struggling  to  quit  its  material  tenement 
— flit  when  at  length  released  1" 

in  pondering  the  great  mystery,  I  thought  of 
Helen  Burns ;  recalled  her  dying  words — her 
faith— rher  doctrine  of  the  equality  of  disem- 
bodied souls.  I  was  still  listening  in  thought 
to  her  well-remembered  tones— still  piclurmg 
her  pale  and  spiritual  aspect,  her  wasted  face 
and  sublime  gaze,  as  she  lay  on  her  placid 
death-bed,  and  whispered  her  longing  to  be  re- 
stored to  her  divine  Father's  bosom — when 
a  feeble  voice  murmured  from  the  couch  be- 
hind, "Who  is  that?" 

I  knew  Mrs.  Reed  had  not  spoken  for  days : 
was  she  reviving?     I  went  up  to  her. 

"It  is  f,  aunt  Reed." 

"Who — H"  was  her  answer.  "Who  are 
youT'  h)oking  at  me  with  surprise  and  a  sort 
of  alarm,  but  still  not  wildly.  "  You  are  quite 
a  stranger  to  me — where  is  Bessie  1" 

"  She  is  at  the  lodge,  aunt." 

"Aunt!"  she  repeated.  "Who  calls  me. 
aunt !  You  are  not  one  of  the  Gibsons  ;  and 
yet  I  know  you — that  face,  and  the  eyes  and 
forehead  are  quite  familiar  to  me  ;  you  are  like 
— why,  you  are  like  Jane  Eyre !" 

1  said  nothing  :  I  was  afraid  of  occasioning 
some  shock  by  declaring  my  identity. 

"  Yet,"  said  she,  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  a  mis- 
take ;  my  thoughts  deceive  me.  1  wished  to 
see  Jane  Eyre,  and  I  fancy  a  likeness  where 
none  exists  ;  besides,  in  eight  years  she  must 
be  so  changed."  I  now  gently  assured  her 
that  I  was  the  person  she  supposed  and  de- 
sired me  to  be;  and  seeing  that  I  was  under- 
stood, and  that  her  senses  were  quite  collect- 
ed, I  explained  how  Bessie  had  sent  her  hus- 
band to  fetch  me  from  Thornfield. 

"  I  am  very  ill,  I  know,"  she  said  ere  long; 
"I  was  trying  to  turn  myself  a  few  minutos 
since,  and  find  I  can  not  move  a  limb.  It  is  aa 
well  I  should  ease  my  mind  before  I  die  ;  what 
we  think  little  of  in  health  burdens  us  at  such 
an  hour  as  the  present  is  to  me.  Is  the  nurso 
herel  or  is  there  no  one  in  the  room  but  you!" 

I  assured  her  we  were  alone. 

"Well,  I  have  twice  done  you  a  wrong 
which  I  regret  now.  One  was  in  breaking 
the  promise  which  I  gave  my  husband  to  brinR 
you  up  as  my  own  child  ;  the  other — "  She 
stopped.  "  After  all,  it  is  of  no  great  import- 
ance, perhaps,"  she  murmured  to  herself ;  "  and 
then  I  may  get  better ;  and  to  humble  myself 
so  to  her  is  painful." 

She  made  an  effort  to  alter  her  position,  but 
failed  :  her  face  changed  ;  she  seemed  to  ex- 
perience some  inward  sensation — the  precur- 
sor, perhaps,  of  the  last  pang. 

"  'Well,  I  must  get  it  over.     Eternity  is  be 
fore   me  :   I  had  better  tell  her.     Go   to  my 
dressing-case,  open  it,  and  lake  out  a  letter  you 
will  see  there." 


92 


JANE  EYRE. 


I  obeyed  her  directions.  "  Read  the  letter," 
she  said. 

It  was  short,  and  thus  conceived  : 

"  Mad.*m — Will  you  have  the  goodness  to 
send  me  the  address  of  my  niece,  Jane  Eyre, 
and  to  tell  me  how  she  is ;  it  is  my  intention 
to  write  shortly  and  desire  her  to  come  to  me 
at  Madeira.  Providence  has  blessed  my  en- 
deavors to  secure  a  competency  ;  and  as  I  am 
unmarried  and  childless,  I  wish  to  adopt  her 
during  my  life,  and  bequeath  her  at  my  death 
whatever  I  may  have  to  leave." 

"I  am,  madam,  &c.,  &c., 
"John  Eyre,  Madeira." 

It  was  dated  three  years  back. 

"  Why  did  I  never  hear  of  this  V  I  asked. 

"  Because  I  disliked  you  too  fixedly  and 
thoroughly  ever  to  lend  a  hand  in  lifting  you  to 
prosperity.  I  could  not  forget  your  conduct  to 
me,  Jane — the  fury  with  which  you  once  turned 
on  me ;  the  tone  in  which  you  declared  you 
abhorred  me  the  worst  of  any  body  in  the 
world ;  the  unchildlike  look  and  voice  with 
which  you  affirmed  that  the  very  thought  of 
me  made  you  sick,  and  asserted  that  I  had 
treated  you  with  miserable  cruelty.  I  could 
not  forget  my  own  sensations  when  you  thus 
started  up  and  poured  out  the  venom  of  your 
mind  ;  I  felt  fear,  as  if  an  animal  that  I  had 
struck  or  pushed  had  looked  up  at  me  with  hu- 
man eyes  and  cursed  me  in  a  man's  voice. 
Bring  me  some  water  I     Oh,  make  haste  !" 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Reed,"  said  I,  as  I  offered  her 
the  draught  she  required,  "  think  no  more  of 
all  this,  let  it  pass  away  from  your  mind. 
Forgive  me  for  my  passionate  language  :  I  was 
a  child  then  ;  eight,  nine  years  have  passed 
since  that  day." 

She  heeded  nothing  of  what  I  said  ;  but 
when  she  had  tasted  the  water  and  drawn 
breath,  she  went  on  thus  : — 

"  I  tell  you  I  could  not  forget  it,  and  I  took 
my  revenge  ;  for  you  to  be  adopted  by  your 
uncle,  and  placed  in  a  state  of  ease  and  com- 
fort, was  what  I  could  not  endure.  I  wrote  to 
him  ;  I  said  I  was  sorry  for  his  disappointment, 
but  Jane  Eyre  was  dead — she  had  died  of 
typhus  fever  at  Lowood.  Now  act  as  you 
please ;  write  and  contradict  my  assertion — 
expose  my  falsehood  as  soon  as  you  like.  You 
were  born,  I  think,  to  be  my  torment ;  my  last 
hour  is  racked  by  the  recollection  of  a  deed 
which,  but  for  you,  I  should  never  have  been 
tempted  to  commit." 

"If you  could  but  be  persuaded  to  think  no 
more  of  it,  aunt,  and  to  regard  me  with  kind- 
ness and  forgiveness — " 

"  You  have  a  very  bad  disposition,"  said  she, 
"  and  one  to  this  day  I  feel  it  impossible  to 
understand  ;  how  for  nine  years  you  could  be 
patient  and  quiescent  under  any  treatment, 
and  in  the  tenth  break  out  all  firb  and  violence, 
I  can  never  comprehend." 

"  My  disposition  is  not  so  bad  as  you  think  : 
I  am  passionate,  but  not  vindictive.  Many  a 
time,  as  a  little  child,  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  love  you  if  you  would  have  let  me  ;  and  I 
long  earnestly  to  be  reconciled  to  you  now; 
kiss  me,  aunt." 

I  approached  my  cheek  to  her  lips ;  she 
would  not  touch  it.  She  said  I  oppressed  her 
by  leaning  over  the  bed,  and  again  demanded 


water.  As  I  laid  her  down — for  I  raised  her 
and  supported  her  on  my  arm  while  she  drank 
— I  covered  her.  ice-cold  and  clammy  hand 
with  mine  ;  the  feeble  fingers  shrank  from  my 
touch — the  glazing  eyes  shunned  my  gaze. 

"  Love  me,  then,  or  hate  me,  as  you  will," 
I  said  at  last,  "  you  have  my  full  and  free 
forgiveness ;  ask  now  for  God's,  and  be  at 
peace." 

Poor,  suffering  woman  !  it  was  too  late  for 
her  to  make  now  the  effort  to  change  her 
habitual  frame  of  mind ;  living,  she  had  ever 
hated  me — dying,  she  must  hate  me  still. 

The  nurse  now  entered,  and  Bessie  followed. 
I  yet  lingered  half  an  hour  longer,  hoping  to 
see  some  sign  of  amity  ;  but  she  gave  none. 
She  was  fast  relapsing  into  stupor ;  nor  did 
her  mind  again  rally.  At  twelve  o'clock  that 
night  she  died.  I  was  not  present  to  close  her 
eyes  ;  nor  were  either  of  her  daughters.  They 
came  to  tell  us  the  next  morning  that  all  was 
over.  She  was  by  that  time  laid  out.  Eliza 
and  I  went  to  look  at  her ;  Georgiana,  who 
had  burst  out  into  loud  weeping,  said  she 
dared  not  go.  There  was  stretched  Sarah 
Reed's  once  robust  and  active  frame,  rigid  and 
still ;  her  eye  of  flint  was  covered  with  its  cold 
lid  ;  her  brow  and  strong  traits  wore  yet  the 
impress  of  her  inexorable  soul.  A  strange  and 
solemn  object  was  that  corpse  to  me.  I  gazed 
on  it  with  gloom  and  pain ;  nothing  soft, 
nothing  sweet,  nothing  pitying,  or  hopeful,  or 
subduing,  did  it  inspire  ;  only  a  grating  anguish 
for  her  woes — not  my  loss — and  a  somber  tear- 
less dismay  at  the  fearfulness  of  death  in  such 
a  form. 

Eliza  surveyed  her  parent  calmly.  After  a 
silence  of  some  minutes  she  observed — 

"  With  her  constitution  she  should  have 
lived  to  a  good  old  age  ;  her  life  was  shortened 
by  trouble."  And  then  a  spasm  constricted 
her  mouth  for  an  instant ;  as  it  passed  away 
she  turned  and  left  the  room,  and  so  did  I. 
Neither  of  us  had  dropped  a  tear 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

Mr.  Rochester  had  given  me  but  one  week's 
leave  of  absence  ;  yet  a  month  elapsed  before 
I  quitted  Gateshead.  I  wished  to  leave  im- 
mediately after  the  funeral,  but  Georgiana  en- 
treated me  to  stay  till  she  could  get  off  to 
London — whither  she  was  now  at  last  invited 
by  her  uncle,  Mr.  Gibson,  who  had  come 
down  to  direct  his  sister's  interment,  and  settle 
the  family  affairs.  Georgiana  said  she  dreaded 
being  left  alone  with  Eliza ;  from  her  she  got 
neither  sympathy  in  her  dejection,  support  in 
her  fears,  nor  aid  in  her  preparations  ;  so  I 
bore  with  her  feeble-minded  quailings  and 
selfish  lamentations  as  well  as  I  could,  and  did 
my  best  in  sewing  for  her  and  packing  her 
dresses.  It  is  true,  that  wliile  I  worked,  she 
would  idle ;  and  I  thought  to  myself,  "  If  you 
and  I  were  destined  to  live  always  together, 
cousin,  we  would  commence  matters  on  a 
different  footing.  1  should  not  settle  tamely 
down  into  being  the  forbearing  party  ;  I  should 
assign  you  your  share  of  labor,  and  compel 
you  to  accomplish  it,  or  else  it  should  be  left 
undone ;  I  should  insist,  also,  on  your  keeping 


JANE  EYRE. 


93 


some  of  those  drawling,  half- insincere  com- 
plaints hushed  in  your  own  breast.  It  is  only 
because  our  connection  happens  to  be  very 
transitory,  and  comes  at  a  peculiarly  mournful 
season,  that  I  consent  thus  to  render  it  so 
patient  and  compliant  on  my  part." 

At  last  I  saw  Georgiana  off;  but  now  it  was 
Eliza's  turn  to  request  me  to  stay  another 
week.  Her  plans  required  all  her  time  and 
attention,  she  said  ;  she  was  about  to  depart 
for  some  unknown  bourn ;  and  all  day  long 
she  stayed  in  her  own  room,  her  door  bolted 
within,  filling  trunks,  emptying  drawers,  burn- 
ing papers,  and  holding  no  communication  with 
any  one.  She  wished  me  to  look  after  the 
house,  to  see  callers,  and  answer  notes  of 
condolence. 

One  morning  she  told  me  I  was  at  liberty. 
"And,"  she  added,  "I  am  obliged  to  you  for 
your  valuable  services  and  discreet  conduct. 
There  is  some  difference  between  living  with 
such  a  one  as  you,  and  with  Georgiana ;  you 
perform  your  own  part  in  life,  and  burden  no 
one.  To-morrow,"  she  continued,  "  I  set  out 
for  the  continent.  I  shall  take  up  my  abode  in 
a  religious  house,  near  Lisle — a  nunnery  you 
would  call  it ;  there  I  shall  be  quiet  and  un- 
molested. I  shall  devote  myself  for  a  time  to 
the  examination  of  the  Roman  Catholic  dog- 
mas, and  to  a  careful  study  of  the  workings  of 
their  system  ;  if  1  find  it  to  be,  as  I  half  sus- 
pect it  is,  the  one  best  calculated  to  insure  the 
doing  of  all  things  decently  and  in  order,  I 
shall  embrace  the  tenets  of  Rome  and  probably 
take  the  veil." 

I  neither  expressed  surprise  at  this  resolu- 
tion nor  attempted  to  dissuade  her  from  it. 
"  The  vocation  will  fit  you  to  a  hair,"  I  thought ; 
"  much  good  may  it  do  you  !" 

When  we  parted,  she  said :  "  Good-bye, 
cousin  Jane  Eyre,  I  wish  you  well ;  you  have 
some  sense." 

I  then  returned :  "  You  are  not  without 
sense,  cousin  Eliza ;  but  what  you  have,  I 
suppose,  in  another  year  will  be  walled  up 
alive  in  a  French  convent.  However,  it  is  not 
my  business,  and,  so  it  suits  you,  I  don't  much 
care." 

"You  are  in  the  right,"  said  she;  and  with 
these  words  we  each  went  our  separate  way. 
As  I  shall  not  have  occasion  to  refer  either  to 
her  or  her  sister  again,  I  may  as  well  mention 
here  that  Georgiana  made  an  advantageous 
match  with  a  wealthy  worn-out  man  of  fashion  ; 
and  that  Eliza  actually  took  the  veil,  and  is  at 
this  day  superior  of  the  convent  where  she 
passed  the  period  of  her  novitiate,  and  which 
she  endowed  with  her  fortune. 

How  people  feel  when   they  are  returning 
home  after  an  absence,  long  or  short,  I  did  not 
know.     I  had  never  experienced  the  sensation. 
I  had  known  what  it  was  to  come  back  to 
Gateshead,  when  a  child,  after  a  long  walk — 
to  be  scolded  for  looking  cold  or  gloomy  ;  and  i 
later,  what  it  was  to  come  back  from  church  j 
to  Lowood — to  long  for  a  plenteous  meal  and 
a"  good  fire,  and   to  be  unable  to  get  either. 
Neither  of  these  returnings  were  very  pleasant 
or  desirable ;  no  magnet  drew  me  to  a  given  j 
point,  increasing  in  its  strength  of  attraction  I 
the  nearer  I  came.     The  return  to  Thornfield  j 
was  yet  to  be  tried.  1 


My  journey  seemed  tedious — very  tedious  ; 
fifty  miles  one  day,  a  night  spent  at  an  inn ; 
fifty  miles  the  next  day.  During  the  first 
twelve  hours  I  thought  of  Mrs.  Reed  in  her 
last  moments  ;  I  saw  her  disfigured  and  dis- 
colored face,  and  heard  her  strangely-altered 
voice  ;  I  mused  on  the  funeral  day,  the  coffin, 
the  hearse,  the  black  train  of  tenants  and  ser- 
vants— few  was  the  number  of  relatives — the 
gaping  vault,  the  silent  church,  the  solemn  ser- 
vice. Then  I  thought  of  Eliza  and  Georgiana. 
I  beheld  one  the  cynosure  of  a  ball-room,  the 
other  the  inmate  of  a  convent  cell ;  and  I  dwelt 
on  and  analyzed  their  separate  peculiarities  of 
person  and  character.     The  evening  arrival  at 

the  great  town  of scattered  thc-se  thoughts ; 

night  gave  them  quite  another  turn.  Laid  down 
on  my  traveler's  bed,  I  left  reminiscence  for  an- 
ticipation. 

I  was  going  back  to  Thornfield ;  but  how 
long  was  I  to  stay  there  1  Not  long — of  that  I 
was  sure.  I  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Fairfax  in 
the  interim  of  my  absence.  The  party  at  the 
Hall  was  dispersed  ;  Mr.  Rochester  had  left  for 
London  three  weeks  ago,  but  he  was  then  ex- 
pected to  return  in  a  fortnight.  Mrs.  Fairfax 
surmised  that  he  was  gone  to  make  arrange- 
ments for  his  wedding,  as  he  had  talked  of  pur- 
chasing a  new  carriage.  She  said,  the  idea  of 
his  marrying  Miss  Ingram  still  seemed  strange 
to  her  ;  but  from  what  every  body  said,  and  from 
what  she  had  herself  seen,  she  could  no  longer 
doubt  that  the  event  would  shortly  take  place. 
"  You  would  be  strangely  incredulous  if  you  did 
doubt  it,"  was  my  mental  comment ;  "  I  don't 
doubt  it." 

The  question  followed,  -'Where  was  I  to  go  1" 
I  dreamed  of  Miss  Ingram  all  the  night.  In  a 
vivid  morning  dream,  I  saw  her  closing  the  gates 
of  Thornfield  against  me  and  pointing  me  out 
another  road ;  and  Mr.  Rochester  looked  on 
with  his  arms  folded,  smiling  sardonically,  as  it 
seemed,  at  both  her  and  me. 

I  had  not  notified  to  Mrs.  Fairfax  the  exact 
day  of  my  return,  for  I  did  not  wish  either  car 
or  carriage  to  meet  me  at  Millcote.  I  proposed 
to  walk  the  distance  quietly  by  myself;  and 
very  quietly,  after  leaving  my  box  in  the 
hostler's  care,  did  I  slip  away  from  the  George 
Inn,  about  six  o'clock  of  a  June  evening,  and 
take  the  old  road  to  Thornfield ;  a  road  which 
lay  chiefly  through  fields,  and  was  now  little 
frequented. 

It  was  not  a  bright  or  splendid  summer  even- 
ing, though  fair  and  soft.  The  hay-makers  were 
at  work  all  along  the  road,  and  the  sky,  though 
far  from  cloudless,  was  such  as  promised  well 
for  the  future — its  blue,  where  blue  was  visible, 
was  mild  and  settled,  and  its  cloud  strata  high 
and  thin.  The  west,  too,  was  warm  ;  no  wa- 
tery gleam  chilled  it ;  it  seemed  as  if  there  was 
a  fire  lighted — an  altar  burning  behind  its  screen 
of  marbled  vapor — and  out  of  apertures  shone 
a  golden  redness. 

I  felt  glad  as  the  road  shortened  before  me — 
so  glad  that  I  stopped  once  to  ask  myself 
what  that  joy  meant,  and  to  remind  reason 
that  it  was  not  to  my  home  I  was  going,  or  to 
a  permanent  resting-place,  or  to  a  place  where 
fond  friends  looked  out  for  me  and  waited  iny 
arrival.  "  Mrs.  Fairfax  will  smile  you  a  calm 
welcome,  to  be  sure,"  said   I ;    "  and  little 


04 


JANE  EYRE. 


Ad^le  will  clap  her  hands  and  jump  to  see  you  ; 
but  you  know  very  well  you  are  thinking  of  an- 
other than  they,  and  rhat  he  is  not  thinking  of 
you." 

But  what  is  so  headstrong  as  youth — what  so 
blind  as  inexperience  1  These  affirmed  that  it 
was  pleasure  enough  to  have  the  privilege  of 
again  looking  on  Mr.  Rociiester,  whether  he 
looked  on  me  or  not ;  and  tliey  added — "  Has- 
ten !  hasten  !  be  with  him  while  you  may  ;  but 
a  few  more  days  or  weeks,  at  most,  and  you  are 
parted  from  him  forever  I"  And  then  I  stran- 
gled a  new-born  agony — a  deformed  thing  which 
I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  own  and  rear — 
and  ran  on. 

They  are  making  hay,  too,  in  Thornfield 
meadows  ;  or,  rather,  the  laborers  are  just 
quitting  their  work,  and  returning  home  with 
their  rakes  on  their  shoulders,  now,  at  the  hour 
I  arrive.  I  have  but  a  field  or  two  to  traverse, 
and  then  I  shall  cross  the  road  and  reach  the 
gates.  How  full  the  hedges  are  of  roses  !  but 
I  have  no  time  to  gather  any  ;  I  want  to  be  at 
the  house.  I  pass  a  tall  brier,  shooting  leafy 
and  flowery  branches  across  the  path  ;  I  see 
the  narrow  stile  with  stone  steps ;  and  I  see — 
Mr.  Rochester  sitting  there,  a  book  and  a  pencil 
in  his  hand.     He  is  writing. 

Well,  he  js  not  a  ghost — yet  every  nerve  I 
have  is  unstrung ;  for  a  moment  I  am  beyond 
my  own  mastery.  What  does  it  mean  1  I  did 
not  think  1  should  tremble  in  this  way  when  I 
saw  him,  or  lose  my  voice  or  the  power  of 
motion  in  his  presence.  I  will  go  back  as  soon 
as  I  can  stir;  I  need  not  make  an  absolute  fool 
of  myself;  I  know  another  way  to  the  house ; 
it  does  not  signify  if  I  knew  twenty  ways,  for 
he  has  seen  me. 

"  Hillo  !"  he  cries  ;  and  he  puts  up  his  book 
and  his  pencil ;  "there  you  are  !  Come  on,  if 
you  please." 

I  suppose  I  do  come  on,  though  in  what  fash- 
ion I  know  not ;  being  scarcely  cognizant  of  my 
movements,  and  solicitofUs  only  to  appear  calm  ; 
and,  above  all,  to  control  the  working  muscles 
of  my  face,  which  I  feel  rebel  insolently  against 
my  will,  and  struggle  to  express  what  1  had  re- 
solved to  conceal.  But  I  have  a  veil — it  is 
dov/n ;  I  may  make  shift  yet  to  behave  with 
decent  composure. 

"  And  this  is  Jane  Eyre  !  Are  you  coming 
from  Millcote,  and  on  foot  1  Yes  ;  just  one  of 
your  tricks — not  to  send  for  a  carriage,  and 
come  clattering  over  street  and  road,  like  a 
common  mortal,  but  to  steal  into  the  vicinage 
of  your  home  along  with  twilight,  just  as  if 
you  were  a  dream  or  a  shade.  What  the 
deuce  have  you  done  with  yourself  this  last 
month  1" 

"I  have  been  with  my  aunt,  sir,  who  is 
dead." 

"  A  true  Janian  reply  !  Good  angels  be  my 
guard  !  She  comes  from  the  other  world — from 
the  abode  of  people  who  are  dead — and  tells  me 
60  when  she  meets  me  alone  here  in  the  gloam- 
ing !  If  I  dared,  I'd  touch  you,  to  see  if  you  are 
substance  or  shadow,  you  elf  I  but  I'd  as  soon 
offer  to  take  hold  of  a  blue  ignis  fatuus  light  in 
a  marsh.  Truant !  truant !"  he  added,  when 
he  had  paused  an  instant,  "  absent  from  me  a 
whole  month,  and  forgetting  me  quite,  I'll  be 
sworn  1" 


I  knew  there  would  be  pleasure  in  meeting 
my  master  again,  even  though  broken  by  the 
foar  that  he  was  so  soon  to  cease  to  be  my 
master,  and  by  the  knowledge  that  I  was 
nothing  to  him  ;  but  there  was  ever  in  Mr. 
Rochester  (so,  at  least,  I  thought)  such  a  wealth 
of  the  power  of  communicating  happiness,  that 
to  taste  but  of  the  crumbs  he  scattered  to 
stray  and  stranger  birds  like  me,  was  to  feast 
genially.  His  last  words  were  halm.  They 
seemed  to  imply  that  it  imported  something  to 
him  whether  I  forgot  him  or  not.  And  he  had 
spoken  of  Thornfield  as  my  home — would  that 
it  were  my  home  ! 

He  did  not  leave  the  stile,  andj  hardly  liked 
to  ask  to  go  by.  I  inquired  soon  if  he  had  not 
been  to  London. 

"  Yes  ;  I  suppose  you  found  that  out  by  sec- 
ond sight." 

"  Mrs.  Fairfax  told  me  in  a  letter." 

"  And  did  she  inform  you  what  I  went  to 
dol" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  !  Every  body  knew  your  er- 
rand." 

"  You  must  see  the  carriage,  Jane,  and  tell 
,me  if  you  don't  think  it  will  suit  Mrs.  Roches- 
ter exactly  ;  and  whether  she  won't  look  like 
Queen  Boadicea,  leaning  hack  against  those 
purple  cushions.  I  wish,  Jane,  I  were  a  trifle 
better  adapted  to  match  with  her  externally. 
Tell  me  now,  fairy  as  you  are,  can't  you  give 
me  a  charm,  or  a  philter,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  to  make  me  a  handsome  mani" 

"  It  would  be  past  the  power  of  magic,  sir  V 
and,  in  thought,  I  added,  "A  loving  eye  is  all 
the  charm  needed ;  to  such  you  are  handsome 
enough,  or,  rather,  your  sternness  has  a  power 
beyond  beauty." 

Mr.  Rochester  had  sometimes  read  my  un- 
spoken thoughts  with  an  acumen  to  me  incom- 
prehensible ;  in  the  present  instance  he  took  no 
notice  of  my  abrupt  vocal  response,  but  he 
smiled  at  me  with  a  certain  smile  he  had  of  his 
own,  and  which  he  used  but  on  rare  occasions. 
He  seemed  to  think  it  too  good  for  common 
purposes  ;  it  was  the  real  sunshine  oi  feeling — 
he  shed  it  over  me  now. 

"  Pass  Janet,"  said  he,  making  room  for  me 
to  cross  the  stile  ;  "  go  up  home,  and  stay  your 
weary  little  wandering  feet  at  a  friend's  thresh- 
old." 

All  I  had  now  to  do  was  to  obey  him  in  si- 
lence ;  no  need  for  me  to  colloquize  further.  I 
got  over  the  stile  without  a  word,  and  meant 
to  leave  him  calmly.  An  impulse  held  me 
fast — a  force  turned  me  round  ;  I  said — or 
something  in  me  said  for  me,  and  in  spite  of 
me — 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Rochester,  for  your  great 
kindness.  I  am  strangely  glad  to  get  back 
again  to  you ;  and  wherever  you  are  is  my 
home — my  only  home." 

I  walked  on  so  fast  that  even  he  could  hardly 
have  overtaken  me  had  he  tried.  Little  Ad^le 
was  half  wild  with  delight  when  she  saw  me. 
Mrs.  Fairfax  received  me  with  her  usual  plaia 
friendliness.  Leah  smiled,  and  even  Sophia 
hid  me  "  bon  soir"  with  glee.  This  was  very 
pleasant ;  there  is  no  happiness  like  that  of 
being  loved  by  your  fellow-creatures,  and  feel- 
ing that  your  presence  is  an  addition  to  their 
comfort 


JANE  EYRE. 


^& 


I  ihat  evening  shut  my  eyes  resolutely 
against  the  future ;  I  stopped  my  ears  against 
the  voice  that  kept  warning  me  of  near  separa- 
tion and  coming  grief  When  tea  was  over, 
and  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  taken  her  knitting,  and  I 
had  assumed  a  low  seat  near  her,  and  Ad^le, 
kneeling  on  the  carpet  had  nestled  close  up  to 
me,  and  a  sense  of  mutual  affection  seemed  to 
surround  us  wiih  a  ring  of  golden  peace,  I 
uttered  a  silent  prayer  that  we  might  not  be 
parted  far  or  soon  ;  but  when,  as  we  thus  sat, 
Mr.  Rochester  entered,  unannounced,  and  look- 
ing at  us,  seemed  to  take  pleasure  in  the 
spectacle  of  a  group  so  amicable — when  he 
said  he  supposed  the  old  lady  was  all  right  now 
that  she  had  got  her  adopted  daughter  back 
again,  and  added  that  he  saw  Adele  was 
"  prfete  a  croquer  sa  petite  maman  Anglaise" 
— I  half  ventured  to  hope  that  he  would,  even  af- 
ter his  marriage,  keep  us  together  somewhere 
under  the  shelter  of  his  protection,  and  not  quite 
exiled  from  the  sunshine  of  his  presence. 

A  fortnight  of  dubious  calm  succeeded  my 
return  to  Thornfield  Hall.  Nothing  was  said 
of  the  master's  marriage,  and  I  saw  no  prepa- 
ration going  on  fur  such  an  event.  Almost  ev- 
ery day  I  asked  Mrs.  Fairfax  if  she  had  yet 
heard  any  thing  decided  ;  her  answer  was  al- 
ways in  the  negative.  Once  she  said  she  had 
actually  put  the  question  to  Mr.  Rochester  as 
to  when  he  was  going  (o  bring  his  bride  home  ; 
but  he  had  answered  her  only  by  a  joke,  and 
one  of  his  queer  looks,  and  she  could  not  tell 
what  to  make  of  him. 

One  thing  specially  surprised  me,  and  that 
was,  there  were  no  journeyings  backward  and 
forward,  no  visits  to  Ingram  Park ;  to  be  sure 
it  v/as  twenty  miles  off,  on  the  borders  of  an- 
other county  ;  but  what  was  that  distance  to  an 
ardent  lover?  To  so  practiced  and  indefatiga- 
ble a  horseman  as  Mr.  Rochester,  it  would  be 
but  a  morning's  ride.  I  began  to  cherish  hopes 
I  had  no  right  to  conceive — that  the  match  was 
broken  off — that  rumor  had  been  mistaken — 
that  one  or  both  parties  had  changed  their 
minds.  1  used  to  look  at  my  master's  face  to 
see  if  it  were  sad  or  fierce  ;  but  I  could  not  re- 
member the  time  when  it  had  been  so  uniform- 
ly clear  of  clouds  or  evil  feelings.  If,  in  the 
moments  I  and  my  pupil  spent  with  him,  I 
lacked  spirits  and  sunk  into  inevitable  dejec- 
tion, he  became  even  gay.  Never  had  he 
called  me  more  frequently  to  his  presence — 
never  been  kinder  to  me  when  there — and, 
alas  !  never  had  I  loved  him  so  well. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  SPLENDID  midsummer  shone  over  England  ; 
skies  so  pure,  suns  so  radiant  as  were  then  seen 
in  long  succession,  seldom  favor,  even  singly, 
our  wave-girt  land.  It  was  as  if  a  band  of 
Italian  days  had  come  from  the  South,  like  a 
flocn.  of  glorious  passenger-birds,  and  lighted  to 
rest  vhem  on  the  cliffs  of  Albion.  The  hay  was 
all  got  in  ;  the  fields  round  Thornfield  were 
green  and  shorn ;  the  roads  white  and  baked  ; 
the  trees  were  in  their  dark  prime  ;  hedge  and 
•wood,  full-leaved  and  deeply-tinted,  contrasted 
well  with  the  sunny  hue  of  the  cleared  meadows 
between. 


On  midsummer  eve,  Adele,  weary  with  galh^ 
ering  wild  strawberries  in  Hay-lane  half  the  day, 
had  gone  to  bed  with  the  sun.  I  watched  her 
drop  asleep,  and  when  I  left  her  I  sought  the 
garden. 

It  was  now  the  sweetest  hour  of  the  twenty- 
four.  "  Day  its  fervid  fires  had  wasted,"  and 
dew  fell  cool  on  panting  plain  and  scorched 
summit.  Where  the  sun  had  gone  down  in 
simple  state— pure  of  the  pomp  of  clouds — 
spread  a  solemn  purple,  burning  with  the  light 
ofred  jewel  and  furnace  flame  at  one  point,  on 
one  hill-peak,  and  extending  high  and  wide,  soft 
and  still  softer,  over  half  heaven.  The  east  had 
its  own  charm  of  fine,  deep  blue,  and  its  own 
modest  gem,  a  rising  and  solitary  star ;  soon  it 
would  boast  the  moon,  but  she  was  yet  beneath 
the  horizon. 

I  walked  awhile  on  the  pavement,  but  a  subtile, 
well-known  scent — that  of  a  cigar — stole  from 
some  window  ;  I  saw  the  library  casement  open 
a  handbreadth  ;  I  knew  I  might  be  watched 
thence,  so  I  went  apart  into  the  orchard.  No 
nook  in  the  grounds  more  sheltered  and  more 
Eden-like  ;  it  was  full  of  trees,  it  bloomed  with 
flowers ;  a  very  high  wall  shut  it  out  from  the 
court,  on  one  side  ;  on  the  other,  a  beech  avenuo 
screened  it  from  the  lawn.  At  the  bottom  was 
a  sunk  fence,  its  sole  separation  from  lonely 
fields  :  a  winding  walk,  bordered  with  laurels 
and  terminating  in  a  giant  horse-chestnut,  cir- 
cled at  the  base  by  a  seat,  led  down  to  the  fence. 
Here  one  could  wander  unseen.  While  such 
honey-dew  fell,  such  silence  reigned,  such  gloam- 
ing gathered,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  haunt  such  shado 
forever  ;  but  in  threading  the  flower  and  fruit- 
parterres  at  the  upper  part  of  the  inclosure, 
enticed  there  by  the  light  the  now  rising  moon 
casts  on  this  more  open  quarter,  my  step  is 
stayed — not  by  sound,  not  by  sight,  but  once 
more  by  a  warning  fragrance. 

Sweet-brier  and  southern-wood,  jasmine, 
pink,  and  rose  have  long  been  yielding  their 
evening  sacrifice  of  incense  :  this-new  scent  is 
neither  of  shrub  nor  flower  ;  it  is — I  know  it 
well — it  is  Mr.  Rochester's  cigar.  I  look  round 
and  I  listen.  I  see  trees  laden  with  ripening 
fruit.  I  hear  a  nightingale  warbling  in  a  wood 
half  a  mile  off;  no  moving  form  is  visible,  no 
coming  step  audible  ;  but  that  p6rfume  in 
creases  :  I  must  flee.  I  make  for  the  wicket 
leading  to  the  shrubbery,  and  I  see  Mr.  Roch- 
ester entering.  I  step  aside  into  the  ivy  re- 
cess ;  he  will  not  stay  long  ;  he  will  soon  return 
whence  he  came,  and  if  I  sit  here  he  will  nev- 
er see  me. 

But  no — eventide  is  as  pleasant  to  him  as  to 
me,  and  this  antique  garden  as  attractive  ;  and 
he  strolls  on,  now  lifting  the  gooseberry-tred 
branches  to  look  at  the  fruit,  large  as  plums, 
with  which  they  are  laden — now  taking  a  ripo 
cherry  from  the  wall — now  stooping  toward  a 
knot  of  flowers,  either  to  inhale  their  fragrance 
or  to  admire  the  dew-beads  on  their  petals.  A 
great  moth  goes  humming  by  me  ;  it  alights  on 
a  plant  at  Mr.  Rochester's  feet ;  he  sees  it,  and 
bends  to  examine  it. 

"  Now  he  has  his  back  toward  me,"  thought 
I,  "and  he  is  occupied,  too ;  perhaps,  if  I  walk 
softly,  I  can  slip  away  unnoticed." 

I  trod  on  an  edging  of  turf,  that  the  crackle 
of  the  pebbly  gravel  might  not  betray  me  ;  he 


96 


JANE  EYRE. 


was  standing  among  the  beds  at  a  yard  or  two 
distant  from  wliere  I  had  to  pass  ;  the  moth  ap- 
parently engaged  him.  "  I  shall  get  by  very 
well,"  I  meditated.  As  I  crossed  his  shadow, 
thrown  long  over  the  garden  by  the  moon,  not 
yet  risen  high,  he  said  quietly,  without  turning, 

"Jane,  come  and  look  at  this  fellow."' 

I  had  made  no  noise — he  had  not  eyes  behind 
— could  his  shadow  feel  1  I  started  at  first,  and 
then  I  approached  him. 

"  Look  at  his  wings,"  said  he  ;  "  he  reminds 
me  rather  of  a  West  Indian  insect ;  one  does 
not  often  see  so  large  and  gay  a  night-rover  in 
England.     There!  he  is  flown." 

The  moth  roamed  away ;  I  was  sheepishly 
retreating  also,  but  Mr.  Rochester  followed  me, 
and  when  we  reached  the  wicket  he  said — 

"  Turn  back :  on  so  lovely  a  night  it  is  a 
shame  to  sit  in  the  house ;  and  surely  no  one 
can  wish  to  go  to  bed  while  sunset  is  thus  at 
meeting  with  moonrise." 

It  is  one  of  my  faults,  that  though  my  tongue 
is  sometimes  prompt  enough  at  answer,  there 
are  times  when  it  sadly  fails  me  in  framing  an 
excuse ;  and  always  the  lapse  occurs  at  some 
crisis,  when  a  facile  word  or  plausible  pretext 
is  specially  wanted  to  get  me  out  of  painful  em- 
barrassment. I  did  not  like  to  walk  at  this 
hour  alone  with  Mr.  Rochester  in  the  shadowy 
orchard  ;  but  I  could  not  find  a  reason  to  allege 
for  leaving  him.  I  followed  with  lagging  step, 
and  thoughts  busily  bent  on  discovering  a  means 
of  extrication  ;  but  he  himself  looked  so  com- 
posed and  so  grave  also,  I  became  ashamed  of 
feeling  any  confusion  ;  the  evil — if  evil  existent 
or  perspective  there  was — seemed  to  lie  with 
me  only  ;  his  mind  was  unconscious  a^d  quiet. 

"Jane,"  he  recommenced,  as  we  entered  the 
laurel- walk,  and  slowly  strayed  down  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  sunk  fence  and  the  horse-chest- 
nut, "  Thornfield  is  a  pleasant  place  in  summer, 
is  it  notr' 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  must  have  become  in  some  degree  at- 
tached to  the  house — you,  who  have  an  eye  for 
natural  beauties,  and  a  good  deal  of  the  organ 
of  adhesiveness  V 

"  I  am  attached  to  it,  indeed." 

"  And,  though  I  don't  comprehend  how  it  is, 
I  perceive  you  have  acquired  a  degree  of  regard 
for  that  foolish  little  child  Adcle,  too  ;  and  even 
for  simple  dame  Fairfax  V 

"  Yes,  sir ;  in  different  ways,  I  have  an  af- 
fection for  both." 

"  And  would  be  sorry  to  part  with  them  1" 

"Yes." 

"  Pity  !"  he  said,  and  sighed  and  paused.  "  It 
is  always  the  way  of  events  in  this  life,"  ho 
continued  presently  ;  "  no  sooner  have  you  got 
settled  in  a  pleasant  resting-place,  than  a  voice 
calls  out  to  you  to  rise  and  move  on,  for  the 
hour  of  repose  is  expired." 

"Must  I  move  on,  sir?"  I  asked.  "Must  I 
leave  Thornfield  1" 

"I  believe  you  must,  Jane.  I  am  sorry, 
Janet ;  but  I  believe,  indeed,  you  must." 

This  was  a  blow ;  but  I  did  not  let  it  pros- 
trate me. 

"  Well,  sir,  I  shall  be  ready  when  the  order 
to  march  comes." 

"  It  is  come  now — I  must  give  it  to-night." 
"Then  you  arc  going  to  be  married,  sir?" 


"  Ex-act-ly — pre-cise-ly  ;  with  your  usueil 
acuteness.  you  have  hit  the  nail  straight  on  the 
head." 

"Soon,  sirl" 

"  Very  soon,  my  ,  that  is.  Miss  Eyre ; 

and  you'll  remember,  Jane,  the  first  time  I,  or 
Rumour,  plainly  intimated  to  you  that  it  was  ■ 
my  intention  to  put  my  old  bachelor's  neck  into  ^ 
the  sacred  noose,  to  enter  into  the  holy  estate 
of  matrimony — to  take  Miss  Ingram  to  my  bo- 
som, in  short  (she's  an  extensive  armful  -.  but 
that's  not  to  the  point — one  can't  have  too 
much  of  such  a  very  excellent  thing  as  my 
beautiful  Blanche) — well,  as  I  was  saying — 
listen  to  me  Jane  !  You're  not  turning  your 
head  to  look  after  more  moths,  are  you  ?  That 
was  only  a  lady-clock,  child,  '  flying  away 
home.'  I  wish  to  remind  you  that  it  was  you 
who  first  said  to  me,  with  that  discretion  I  re- 
spect in  you — with  that  foresight,  prudence,  and 
humility  which  befit  your  responsible  and  de- 
pendent position — that  in  case  I  married  Miss 
Ingram,  both  you  and  little  Adele  had  better 
trot  forthwith.  I  pass  over  the  sort  of  slur  con- 
veyed in  this  suggestion  on  the  character  of  my 
beloved  ;  indeed,  when  you  are  far  away,  Janet, 
I'll  try  to  forget  it  ;  I  shall  notice  only  its  wis- 
dom, which  is  such  that  I  have  made  it  my  law 
of  action.  AdMe  must  go  to  school,  and  you, 
'Miss  Eyre,  must  get  a  new  situation." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  will  advertise  immediately  ;  and 
meantime,  I  suppose—"  I  was  going  to  say, 
"  I  suppose  I  may  stay  here  till  I  find  another 
shelter  to  betake  myself  to;"  but  I  stopped, 
feeling  it  would  not  do  to  risk  a  long  sentence, 
for  my  voice  was  not  quite  under  command. 

"  In  about  a  month  I  hope  to  be  a  bride- 
groom," continued  Mr.  Rochester;  "and  in  the 
interim,  I  shall  myself  look  out  for  employment 
and  an  asylum  for  you." 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  am  sorry  to  give — " 

"  Oh,  no  need  to  apologize  !  I  consider  that 
when  a  dependent  does  her  duty  as  well  as  you 
have  done  yours  she  has  a  sort  of  claim  upon 
her  employer  for  any  little  assistance  he  can 
conveniently  render  her ;  indeed,  I  have  already, 
through  my  future  mother-in-law,  heard  of  a 
place  that  I  think  will  suit ;  it  is  to  undertake 
the  education  of  the  five  daughters  of  Mrs.  Dio- 
nysius  O'Gall  of  Bitternutt  Lodge,  Connaught, 
Ireland.  You'll  like  Ireland.  I  think:  they're 
such  warm-hearted  people  there,  they  say." 

"  It  is  a  long  way  off,  sir." 

"No  matter — a  girl  of  your  sense  will  not 
object  to  the  voyage  or  the  distance." 

"  Not  the  voyage,  but  the  distance  ;  and  then 
the  sea  is  a  barrier — " 

"  From  what,  Jane  ?" 

"FromEngland;  and  from  Thornfield;  and — " 

"WelH" 

"  From  you,  sir." 

I  said  this  almost  involuntarily  ;  and,  with  as 
little  sanction  of  free  will,  my  tears  gushed  out. 
I  did  not  cry  so  as  to  be  heard,  however;  I 
avoided  sobbing.  The  thought  of  Mrs.  O'Gall 
and  Bitternutt  Lodge  struck  cold  to  my  heart ; 
and  colder  the  thought  of  all  the  brine  and  foam, 
destined,  as  it  seemed,  to  rush  between  me  and 
the  master,  at  whose  side  I  now  walked  ;  and 
coldest  at  the  remembrance  of  the  wider  ocean 
— wealth,  caste,  custom  intervened  between  me 
and  what  I  naturally  and  inevitably  loved." 


JANE  EYRE. 


97 


"It  is  a  long  way,"  I  again  said. 

"  It  is,  to  be  sure ;  and  when  you  get  to  Bit- 
ternutt  Lodge,  Connaught,  Ireland,  I  shall  nev- 
er see  you  again,  Jane  :  that's  morally  certain. 
I  never  go  over  to  Ireland,  not  having  myself 
much  of  a  fancy  for  the  country.  We  have 
been  good  friends,  Jane,  have  we  nof!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  And  when  friends  are  on  the  eve  of  separa- 
tion, they  like  to  spend  the  little  time  that  re- 
mains to  them  close  to  each  other.  Come, 
we'll  talk  over  the  voyage  and  the  parting  quiet- 
ly, half  an  hour  or  so,  while  the  stars  enter  into 
their  shining  life  up  in  heaven  yonder;  here  is 
the  chestnut-tree  ;  here  is  the  bench  at  its  old 
roots.  Come,  we  will  sit.^here  in  peace  to- 
night, though  we  should  never  more  be  destined 
to  sit  there  together."  He  seated  me  and  him- 
self. 

"  It  is  a  long  way  to  Ireland,  Janet,  and  I  am 
sorry  to  send  my  little  friend  on  such  weary 
travels  ;  but  if  I  can't  do  better,  how  is  it  to  be 
helped  1  Are  you  any  thing  akin  to  me,  do  you 
think,  Jane  V 

I  could  risk  no  sort  of  answer  by  this  time ; 
my  heart  was  full. 

"Because,"  he  said,  "I  sometimes  have  a 
queer  feeling  with  regard  to  you,  especially 
when  you  are  near  me,  as  now ;  it  is  as  if  I 
had  a  string  somewhere  under  my  left  ribs, 
tightly  and  inextricably  knotted  to  a  similar 
string  situated  in  the  corresponding  quarter  of 
your  little  frame.  And  if  that  boisterous  chan- 
nel, and  two  hundred  miles  or  so  of  land  come 
broad  between  us,  I  am  afraid  that  cord  of  com- 
munion will  be  snapped  ;  and  then  I've  a  nerv- 
ous notion  I  should  take  to  bleeding  inwardly. 
As  for  you,  you'd  forget  me." 

"  That  I  never  should,  sir  ;  you  know—"  im- 
poR.sible  to  priicced. 

"  Jane,  do  you  hear  that  nightingale  singing 
in  the  wood  1     Listen  !" 

In  listening,  I  sobbed  convulsively ;  for  I 
could  repress  what  I  endured  no  longer  ;  I  was 
obliged  to  yield  ;  and  I  was  shaken  from  head 
to  foot  with  acute  distress.  When  I  did  speak, 
it  was  only  to  express  an  impetuous  wish  that 
I  had  never  been  born,  or  never  come  to  Thorn- 
field. 

"  Because  you  are  sorry  to  leave  itl" 

The  vehemence  of  emotion,  stirred  by  grief 
and  love  within  me,  was  claiming  mastery,  and 
struggling  for  full  sway  and  asserting  a  right 
to  predominate — to  overcome,  to  live,  rise,  and 
reign  at  last ;  yes,  and  to  speak. 

"  I  grieve  to  leave  Thornfield  ;  I  love  Thorn- 
field  ;  I  love  it,  because  I  have  lived  in  it  a  full 
and  delightful  life,  momentarily  at  least.  I 
have  not  been  trampled  on.  I  have  not  been 
petrified.  I  have  not  been  buried  with  inferior 
minds,  and  excluded  from  every  glimpse  of  com- 
munion with  what  is  bright,  and  energetic,  and 
high.  I  have  talked,  face  to  face,  with  what  I 
reverence ;  with  what  I  delight  in,  with  an 
original,  a  vigorous,  an  expanded  mind.  I  have 
known  you,  Mr.  Rochester ;  and  it  strikes  me 
with  terror  and  anguish  to  feel  I  absolutely 
must  be  tori>  from  you  forever.  I  see  the  ne- 
cessity of  departure  ;  and  it  is  like  looking  on 
the  necessity  of  death." 

"Where  do  you  see  the  necessity?'  he  ask- 
ed, suddenly. 

G 


"  Where  1  You,  sir,  have  placed  it  before  me." 

"  In  what  shape  1" 

"  In  the  shape  of  Miss  Ingram  ;  a  noble  and 
beautiful  woman,  your  bride." 

"  My  bride  !    What  bride  1    I  have  no  bride !" 

"  But  you  will  have." 

"  Yes  ;  I  will !  I  will !"     He  set  his  teeth. 

"  Then  I  must  go  ;  you  have  said  it  yourself" 

"  No  ;  you  must  stay  !  I  swear  it,  and  the 
oath  shall  be  kept." 

"  I  tell  you  I  must  go  !"  I  retorted,  roused  to 
something  like  passion.  "Do  you  think  I  can 
stay  to  become  nothing  to  you  1  Do  you  think 
I  am  an  automaton  ]  a  machine  without  feel- 
ings 1  and  can  bear  to  have  my  morsel  of  bread 
snatched  from  my  lips,  and  my  drop  of  living 
water  dashed  from  my  cup?  Do  you  think,  be- 
cause I  am  poor,  obscure,  plain,  and  little,  I  am 
soulless  and  heartless  1  You  think  wrong  !  I 
have  as  much  soul  as  you,  and  full  as  much 
heart !  And  if  God  had  gifted  me  with  some 
beauty,  and  much  wealth,  I  should  have  made 
it  as  hard  for  you  to  leave  me,  as  it  is  now  for 
me  to  leave  you.  I  am  not  talking  to  you  now 
through  the  medium  of  custom,  conventionali- 
ties, nor  even  of  mortal  flesh ;  it  is  my  spirit 
that  addresses  your  spirit ;  just  as  if  both  had 
passed  through  the  grave,  and  we  stood  at 
God's  feet,  equal — as  we  are  !" 

"As  we  are!"  repeated  Mr.  Rochester — 
"  so,"  he  added,  inclosing  me  in  his  arms, 
gathering  me  to  his  breast,  pressing  his  lips  on 
my  lips  :  so,  Jane  !" 

"  Yes,  so,  sir,"  I  rejoined  :  "  and  yet  not  so  ; 
for  you  are  a  married  man — or  as  good  as  a 
married  man,  and  wed  to  one  inferior  to  you — 
to  one  with  whom  you  have  no  sympathy — 
whom  I  do  not  believe  you  truly  love  ;  for  I 
have  seen  and  heard  you  sneer  at  her.  I  would 
scorn  such  a  union  ;  therefore  I  am  better  than 
you — let  me  go  !" 

"Where,  Jane  1  to  Ireland  1" 

"  Yes — to  Ireland.  I  have  spoken  mymind, 
and  can  go  any  where  now." 

"  Jane,  be  still ;  don't  struggle  so,  like  a  wild, 
frantic  bird  that  is  rending  its  own  plumage  ia 
its  desperation." 

"  I  am  no  bird  ;  and  no  net  insnares  me :  I 
am  a  free,  human  being,  with  an  independent 
will;  which  I  now  exert  to  leave  you." 

Another  effort  set  me  at  liberty,  and  I  stood 
erect  before  him. 

"  And  your  will  shall  decide  your  destiny," 
he  said :  I  offer  you  my  hand,  my  heart,  and  a 
share  of  all  my  possessions." 

"  You  play  a  farce,  which  I  merely  laugh  at." 

"  I  ask  you  to  pass  through  life  at  my  side — 
to  be  my  second  self,  and  best  earthly  com- 
panion." 

"  For  that  fate  you  have  already  made  your 
choice,  and  must  abide  by  it." 

"  Jane,  be  still  a  few  moments :  you  are 
overexcited :  I  will  be  still  too." 

A  waft  of  wind  came  sweeping  down  the 
laurel-walk,  and  trembled  through  the  boughs  • 
of  the  chestnut :  it  wandered  away — away — to 
an  indefinite  distance — it  died.  The  nightin- 
gale's song  was  then  the  o[ily  voice  of  the  hour  : 
in  listening  to  it,  I  again  wept.  Mr.  Rochester 
sat  quiet,  looking  at  me  gently  and  seriously. 
Some  time  passed  before  he  spoke ;  he  at  last 
said — 


98 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Come  to  my  side,  Jane,  and  let  us  explain 
and  understand  one  another." 

"  I  will  never  again  come  to  your  side  :  I  am 
torn  away  now,  and  can  not  return." 

"  But,  Jane,  I  summon  you  as  my  wife  :  it  is 
you  only  I  intend  to  marry." 
I  was  silent :  I  thought  he  mocked  me. 
"Come,  Jane — come  hither." 
"  Your  bride  stands  between  us." 
He  rose,  and  with  a  stride  reached  me. 
"My  bride  is  here,"  he  said,  again  drawing 
me  to  him,  "  because  my  equal  is  here,  and  my 
likeness.     Jane,  will  you  marry  me  1" 

Still  I  did  not  answer,  and  still  I  writhed 
myself  from  his  grasp ;  for  I  was  still  incred- 
ulous. 

"Do  you  doubt  me,  Janel" 
"Entirely." 

"  You  have  no  faith  in  me  1" 
"Not  a  whit." 

"Am  I  a  liar  in  your  eyesi"  he  asked  pas- 
eionately.  "  Little  skeptic,  you  shall  be  con- 
vinced. What  love  have  I  for  Miss  Ingram"! 
None,  antf  that  you  know.  What  love  has  she 
for  me "!  None,  as  I  have  taken  pains  to  prove  : 
I  caused  a  rumor  to  reach  her  that  my  fortune 
was  not  a  third  of  what  was  supposed,  and  after 
that  I  presented  myself  to  see  the  result :  it 
was  coldness  both  from  her  and  her  mother.  I 
would  not — I  could  not — marry  Miss  Ingram. 
You  —  you  strange  —  you  almost  unearthly 
thing !  I  love  as  my  own  flesh.  You  —  poor 
and  obscure,  and  small  and  plain  as  you  are — I 
entreat  to  accept  me  as  a  husband." 

"  What,  me  !"  I  ejaculated,  beginning  in  his 
earnestness — and  especially  m  his  incivility — 
to  credit  his  sincerity  ;  "me,  who  have  not  a 
friend  in  the  world  but  you — if  you  are  my 
friend  ;  not  a  shilling  but  what  you  have  given 
mel" 

"  You,  Jane.  I  must  have  you  for  my  own 
— entirely  my  own.  Will  you  be  mine  '\  Say 
yes,  quickly." 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  let  me  look  at  your  face  ; 
turn  to  the  moonlight." 
"Why!" 

"  Because  I  want  to  read  your  countenance ; 
turn !" 

"  There  ;  you  will  find  it  scarcely  more  legi- 
ble than  a  crumpled,  scratched  page.  Head 
on  ;  only  make  haste,  for  I  suffer." 

His  face  was  very  much  agitated  and  very 
much  flushed,  and  there  were  strong  workings 
in  the  features,  and  strange  gleams  in  the  eyes. 
"Oh,  Jane,  you  torture  me!"  he  exclaimed. 
"  With  that  searching  and  yet  faithful  and  gen- 
erous look  you  torture  me  !" 

"  How  can  I  do  that  1  If  you  are  true,  and 
your  offer  real,  my  only  feelings  to  you  must 
be  gratitude  and  devotion — they  can  not  tor- 
ture." 

"  Gratitude !"  he  ejaculated  ;  and  added 
wildly — "Jane,  accept  me  quickly.  Say,  Ed- 
ward— give  me  my  name — Edward,  I  will  mar- 
ry you." 

"Are  you  in  earnest]  Do  you  truly  love 
me]  Do  you  sincerely  wish  me  to  be  your 
wife  ]" 

"  I  do ;  and  if  an  oath  is  necessary  to  satisfy 
vou,  1  swear  it." 

"  Then,  sir,  I  will  marry  you." 
"  Edward — my  little  wife  !" 


"  Dear  Edward !" 

"  Come  to  me — come  to  me  entirely  now," 
said  he  ;  and  added,  in  his  deepest  tone,  speak- 
ing in  my  ear  as  his  cheek  was  laid  on  mine, 
"Make  my  happiness — I  will  make  yours." 

"  God  pardon  me !"  he  subjoined  ere  long, 
"  and  man  meddle  not  with  me  ;  I  have  her, 
and  will  hold  her." 

"  There  is  no  one  to  meddle,  sir.  I  have  no 
kindred  to  interfere." 

"  No — that  is  the  best  of  it,"  he  said.  And 
if  I  had  loved  him  less  I  should  have  thought 
his  accent  and  look  of  exultation  savage  ;  but, 
sitting  by  him,  roused  from  the  nightmare  of 
parting  —  called  to  the  paradise  of  union  —  I 
thought  only  of  the  bliss  given  me  to  drink  in 
so  abundant  a  flow.  Again  and  again  he  said, 
"  Are  you  happy,  Jane !"  And  again  and  again 
I  answered,  "  Yes."  After  which  he  murmur- 
ed, "  It  will  atone — it  will  atone.  Have  I  not 
found  her  friendless,  and  cold,  and  comfortless  1 
Will  I  not  guard,  and  cherish,  and  solace  her? 
Is  there  not  love  in  my  heart,  and  constancy  in 
my  resolves  1  It  will  expiate  at  God's  tribunal. 
I  know  my  Maker  sanctions  what  I  do.  For 
the  world's  judgment — I  wash  my  hands  there- 
of.    For  man's  opinion — I  defy  it." 

But  what  had  befallen  the  night  1  The  moon 
was  not  yet  set,  and  we  were  all  in  shadow ;  I 
could  scarcely  see  my  master's  face,  near  as  I 
was.  And  what  ailed  the  chestnut-tree  1  It 
writhed  and  groaned,  while  wind  roared  in  the 
laurel-walk,  and  came  sweeping  over  us. 

"We  must  go  in,"  said  Mr.  Roches'ler : 
"  the  weather  changes.  I  could  have  sat  with 
thee  till  morning,  Jane." 

"And  so,"  thought  I,  "could  I  with  you."  I 
should  have  said  so,  perhaps,  but  a  livid,  vivid 
spark  leaped  out  of  a  cloud  at  which  I  was 
looking,  and  there  was  a  crack,  a  crash,  and  a 
close  rattling  peal ;  and  I  thought  only  of  hid- 
ing my  dazzled  eyes  against  Mr.  Rochester's 
shoulder.  The  rain  rushed  down.  He  hurried 
me  up  the  walk,  through  the  grounds,  and  into 
the  house  ;  but  we  were  quite  wet  before  we 
could  pass  the  threshold.  He  was  taking  off 
my  shawl  in  the  hall,  and  shaking  the  water 
out  of  my  loosened  hair,  when  Mrs.  Fairfax 
emerged  from  her  room.  I  did  not  observe 
her  at  first,  nor  did  Mr.  Rochester.  The  lamp 
was  lighted.  The  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of 
twelve. 

"  Hasten  to  take  off  your  wet  things,"  said 
he  :  "  and  before  you  go,  good-night — good- 
night, my  darling!" 

He  kissed  me  repeatedly.  When  I  looked 
up,  on  leaving  his  arms,  there  stood  the  widow, 
pale,  grave,  and  amazed.  I  only  smiled  at  her, 
and  ran  up  stairs.  "  Explanation  will  do  for 
another  time."  thought  I.  Still,  when  I  reach- 
ed my  chamber,  I  felt  a  pang  at  the  idea  she 
should  even  temporarily  misconstrue  what  she 
had  seen.  But  joy  soon  effaced  every  other 
feeling;  and  loud  as  the  wind  blew,  near  and 
deep  as  the  thunder  crashed,  fierce  and  fre- 
quent as  the  lightning  gleamed,  cataract-like  as 
the  rain  fell  d'uring  a  storm  of  two  hours'  du- 
ration, I  experienced  no  fear,  and  little  awe. 
Mr.  Rochester  came  thrice  to  my  door  in  the 
course  of  it,  to  ask  if  I  was  safe  and  tranquil ; 
and  that  was  comfort,  that  was  strength  for 
any  thing. 


JANE  EYRE. 


99 


Before  I  left  my  bed  in  the  morning,  little 
Adele  came  running  in  to  tell  me  that  the 
great  horse-chestnut  at  the  bottom  of  the  or- 
chard had  been  struck  by  lightning  in  the  night, 
and  half  of  it  split  away. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

As  I  rose  and  dressed,  I  thought  over  what 
had  happened,  and  wondered  if  it  were  a 
dream.  I  could  not  be  certain  of  the  reality 
till  I  had  seen  Mr  Rochester  again,  and  heard 
him  renew  his  words  of  love  and  promise. 

While  arranging  my  hair,  I  looked  at  my  face 
in  the  glass,  and  felt  it  was  no  longer  plain  ; 
there  was  hope  in  its  aspect  and  life  in  its  col- 
or ;  and  my  eyes  seemed  as  if  they  had  beheld 
the  fount  of  fruition,  and  borrowed  beams  from 
the  lustrous  ripple.  I  had  often  been  unwilling 
to  look  at  my  master,  because  I  feared  he  could 
not  be  pleased  at  my  look,  but  I  was  sure  I 
might  lift  my  face  to  his  now  and  not  cool  his 
affection  by  its  expression.  I  took  a  plain  but 
clean  and  light  summer  dress  from  my  drawer 
and  put  it  on  ;  it  seemed  no  attire  had  ever  so 
well  become  me,  because  none  had  I  ever  worn 
in  so  blissful  a  mood. 

I  was  not  surprised,  when  I  ran  down  into 
the  hall,  to  see  that  a  brilliant  Jime  morning 
had  succeeded  to  the  tempest  of  the  night,  and 
to  feel,  through  the  open  glass  door,  the  breath- 
ing of  a  fresh  and  fragrant  breeze.  Nature 
must  be  gladsome  when  I  was  so  happy.  A 
beggar-woman  and  her  little  boy,  pale,  ragged 
objects  both,  were  coming  up  the  walk,  and  I 
ran  down  and  gave  them  all  the  money  I  hap- 
pened to  have  in  my  purse,  some  three  or  four 
shillings  ;  good  or  bad  they  must  partake  of  my 
jubilee.  Ttie  rooks  cawed,  and  blither  birds 
sung ;  but  nothing  was  so  merry  or  so  musical 
as  my  own  rejoicing  heart. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  surprised  me  by  looking  out  of 
the  window  with  a  sad  countenance,  and  say- 
ing, gravely,  "Miss  Eyre,  will  you  come  to 
breakfast  1"  During  the  meal  she  was  quiet 
and  cool,  hut  I  could  not  undeceive  her  then. 
I  must  wait  for  my  master  to  give  explana- 
tions ;  and  so  must  she.  I  ate  what  I  could, 
and  then  I  hastened  up  stairs.  I  met  Adele 
leaving  the  school-rooiri. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ■  It  is  time  for  les- 
sons." 

"  Mr.  Rochester  has  sent  me  away  to  the 
nursery." 

"Where  is  he?' 

"  In  there,"  pointing  to  the  apartment  she 
had  left ;  and  I  went  in,  and  there  he  stood. 

"  Come,  and  bid  me  good-morning,"  said  he. 
I  gladly  advanced,  and  it  was  not  merely  a  cold 
Word  now,  or  even  a  shake  of  the  hand  that  I 
received,  but  an  embrace  and  a  kiss.  It  seem- 
ed natural ;  it  seemed  genial  to  be  so  well- 
loved,  so  caressed  by  him. 

"Jane,  you  look  blooming,  and  smiling,  and 
pretty,"  said  he  ;  "  truly  prelty  this  morning. 
Is  this  my  pale  little  elf!  Is  this  my  mustard- 
seed  1  This  little  sunny-faced  girl,  with  the 
dimpled  cheek  and  rosy  lips;  the  satin-smoolh 
hazel  hair,  and  the  radiant  hazel  eyes!"  (I 
had  green  eyes,  reader ;  but  you  must  excuse 


the  mistake,  for  him,  they  were  new-dyed,  I 
supijose.) 

"  It  is  Jane  Eyre,  sir." 

"Soon  to  be  Jane  Rochester,"  he  added; 
"  in  four  weeks,  Janet,  not  a  day  more.  Do 
you  hear  that V 

I  did,  and  I  could  not  quite  comprehend  it ; 
it  made  me  giddy.  The  feeling,  the  announce- 
ment sent  through  me,  was  something  stronger 
than  was  consistent  with  joy,  something  that 
smote  and  stunned  ;  it  was,  I  think,  almost 
fear. 

"  You  blushed,  and  now  you  are  white,  Jane  ; 
what  is  that  fori" 

"  Because  you  gave  me  a  new  name — Jane 
Rochester  ;  and  it  seems  so  strange." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Rochester,"  said  he;  "young 
Mrs.  Rochester ;  Fairfax  Rochester's  giii- 
bride." 

"  It  can  never  be,  sir  ;  it  does  not  sound 
likely.  Human  beings  never  enjoy  complete 
happiness  in  this  world.  I  was  not  born  for  a 
different  destiny  to  the  rest  of  my  species;  to 
imagine  such  a  lot  befalling  me  is  a  fairy  tale, 
a  day-dream." 

"Which  I  can  and  will  realize.  I  shall  be- 
gin to-day.  This  morning  I  wrote  to  rny  banker 
in  London  to- send  me  certain  jewels  he  has  in 
his  keeping,  heir-looms  for  the  ladies  of  Thorn- 
field,  in  a  day  or  two  I  hope  to  pour  them  into 
your  lap  ;  for  every  privilege,  every  attention 
shall  be  yours,  that  I  would  accord  a  peer's 
daughter,  if  about  to  marry  her." 

"  Oh,  sir  I  never  mind  jewels  !  I  don't  like 
to  hear  them  spoken  of  Jewels  for  Jane  Eyre 
sounds  unnatural  and  strange  ;  I  would  rather 
not  have  them." 

"  I  will  myself  put  the  diamond  chain  round 
your  neck,  and  the  circlet  on  your  forehead, 
which  it  will  become  :  for  nature,  at  least,  has 
stamped  her  patent  of  nobility  on  this  brow, 
Jane  ;  and  I  will  clasp  the  bracelets  on  these 
line  wrists,  and  load  these  fairy-like  fingers 
w^ith  rings." 

"  No,  no,  sir  !  think  of  other  subjects,  and 
speak  of  other  things,  and  in  another  strain. 
Don't  address  me  as  if  I  were  a  beauty  ;  I  am 
your  plain,  Quakerish  governess." 

"  You  are  a  beauty,  in  my  eyes  ;  and  a  beau- 
ty just  after  the  desire  of  my  own  heart,  deli- 
cate and  aerial." 

"  Puny  and  insignificant,  you  mean.  You 
are  dreaming,  sir--or,  you  are  sneering.  For 
God's  sake,  don't  be  ironical  I" 

"  I  will  make  the  world  acknowledge  you  a 
beauty,  too,"  he  went  on,  while  I  really  be- 
came uneasy  at  the  strain  he  had  adopted  ;  be- 
cause I  felt  he  was  either  deluding  himself  or 
trying  to  delude  me.  "  I  will  attire  my  Jane 
in  satin  and  lace,  and  she  shall  have  roses  in 
her  hair,  and  I  will  cover  the  head  I  love  best 
with  a  priceless  veil." 

"  And  then  you  won't  know  me,  sir ;  and  I 
shall  not  be  your  Jane  Eyre  any  longer,  but  an 
ape  in  a  harlequin's  jacket — a  jay  in  borrowed 
plumes.  I  would  as  soon  see  you,  Mr.  Roches- 
ter, tricked  out  in  stage-trappings,  as  myself 
clad  in  a  court-lady's  robe  ;  and  I  don't  call 
you  handsome,  sir,  though  I  love  you  most 
dearly — far  too  dearly  to  flatter  you.  Don't 
flatter  me." 
He   pursued  his  theme,  however,  without.. 


100 


JANE  EYRE. 


noticing  my  deprecation.  "  This  very  day  I 
shall  lake  jou  in  the  carriage  to  Millcote,  and 
you  must  choose  some  dresses  for  yourself.  I 
told  you  we  shall  be  married  in  four  weeks. 
The  wedding  is  to  take  place  quietly,  in  the 
church  down  below  yonder ;  and  then  I  shall 
waft  you  away  at  once  to  town.  After  a  brief 
stay  there,  1  shall  bear  my  treasure  to  regions 
nearer  the  sun  ;  to  French  vineyards  and  Ital- 
ian plains  ;  and  she  shall  see  whatever  is  fa- 
mous in  old  story  and  in  modern  record  ;  she 
shall  taste,  too,  of  the  life  of  cities ;  and  she 
shall  learn  to  value  herself  by  just  comparison 
with  others." 

"  Shall  I  travel  1  and  with  you,  sir  1" 

"  You  shall  sojourn  at  Paris,  Rome,  and  Na- 
ples ;  at  Florence,  Venice,  and  Vienna  ;  all  the 
ground  I  have  wandered  over  shall  be  re-trod- 
dren  by  you  ;  wherever  I  stamped  my  hoof, 
your  sylph's  foot  shall  step  also.  Ten  years 
since,  I  flew  through  Europe  half  mad,  with 
disgust,  hate,  and  rage,  as  my  companions ; 
now  I  shall  revisit  it  healed  and  cleansed,  with 
a  very  angel  as  my  comforter." 

I  laughed  at  him  as  he  said  this.  "  I  am  not 
an  angel,"  I  asserted;  "and  I  will  not  be  one 
till  I  die  :  I  will  be  myself,  Mr.  Rochester  ;  you 
must  neither  expect  nor  exact  any  thing  celes- 
tial of  me,  for  you  will  not  get  it  any  more  than 
I  shall  get  it  of  you,  which  I  do  not  at  all  an- 
ticipate." 

"What  do  you  anticipate  of  mel" 

"  For  a  little  while  you  will,  perhaps,  be  as 
you  are  now,  a  very  little  while  ;  and  then  you 
will  turn  cool ;  and  then  you  will  be  capri- 
cious ;  and  then  you  will  be  stern,  and  I  shall 
have  much  ado  to  please  you  ;  but  when  you 
get  well  used  to  me,  you  will,  perhaps,  like  me 
again,  like  me,  I  say  not  love  me.  I  suppose 
your  love  will  eflTervesce  in  six  months,  or  less. 
I  have  observed  in  books  written  by  men,  that 
period  assigned  as  the  farthest  to  which  a  hus- 
band's ardor  extends.  Yet,  after  all,  as  a  friend 
and  companion,  I  hope  never  to  become  quite 
distasteful  to  my  dear  master." 

"  Distasteful !  and  like  you  again  !  I  think  I 
shall  like  you  again  and  yet  again  ;  and  I  will 
make  you  confess  I  do  not  only  like,  but  love 
you— rwiih  truth,  fervor,  constancy." 

"  Yet,  are  you  not  capricious,  sir?" 

"To  women  who  please  me  only  by  their 
faces,  I  am  the  very  devil  when  I  find  out  they 
have  neither  souls  nor  hearts — when  they  open 
to  me  a  perspective  of  flatness,  triviality,  and, 
perhaps,  imbecility,  coarseness,  and  ill-temper ; 
but  to  the  clear  eye  and  eloquent  tongue,  to  the 
soul  made  of  fire,  and  the  character  that  bends 
but  does  not  break — at  once  supple  and  stable, 
tractable  and  consistent — I  am  ever  tender  and 
true." 

"  Had  you  ever  experience  of  such  a  charac- 
ter, sir  1     Did  you  ever  love  such  a  one  1" 

"  I  love  it  now." 

"  But  before  me  ;  if  I,  indeed,  in  any  respect 
come  up  to  that  difiicult  standard?" 

"  I  never  met  your  likeness,  Jane  ;  you  please 
me,  and  you  master  me — you  seem  to  submit, 
and  I  like  the  sense  of  pliancy  you  impart ;  and 
while  I  am  twining  the  soft,  silken  skein  round 
my  finger,  it  sends  a  thrill  up  my  arm  to  my 
heart.  I  am  influenced — conquered  ;  and  the 
influence  is  sweeter  than  I  can  express ;  and 


the  conquest  I  undergo  has  a  witchery  beyond 
any  triumph  I  can  win.  Why  do  you  smile, 
Jane  1  What  does  that  inexplicable,  that  un- 
canny turn  of  countenance  mean?" 

"I  was  thinking,  sir  (you  will  excuse  the 
idea  ;  it  was  involuntary),  I  was  thinking  of 
Hercules  and  Samson  with  their  charmers — " 

"You  were,  you  little,  elfish — " 

"  Hush,  sir  !  You  don't  talk  very  wisely 
just  now ;  any  more  than  those  gentlemen 
acted  very  wisely.  However,  had  they  been 
married,  they  would,  no  doubt  by  their  severity 
as  husbands,  have  made  up  for  their  softness  as 
suitors  ;  and  so  will  you,  I  fear.  I  wonder  how 
you  will  answer  me  a  year  hence,  should  I  ask 
a  favor  it  does  not  suit  your  convenience  or 
pleasure  to  grant." 

"  Ask  me  something  now,  Janet — the  least 
thing ;  I  desire  to  be  entreated — " 

"  Indeed,  I  will  sir ;  I  have  my  petition  all 
ready." 

"  Speak !  But  if  you  look  up  and  smile 
with  that  countenance,  I  shall  swear  conces- 
sion before  I  know  to  what,  and  that  will  make 
a  fool  of  me." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir  :  I  ask  only  this  ;  don't  send 
for  the  jewels,  and  don't  crown  me  with  roses  ; 
you  might  as  well  put  a  border  of  gold  lace 
round  that  plain  pocket-handherchief  you  have 
there." 

"  I  might  as  well '  gild  refined  gold.'  I  know 
it ;  your  request  is  granted,  then — for  the  time. 
I  will  remand  the  order  I  dispatched  to  my 
banker.  But  you  have  not  yet  asked  for  any 
thing  ;  you  have  prayed  a  gift  to  be  withdrawn ; 
try  again." 

"  Well,  then,  sir ;  have  the  goodness  to 
gratify  my  curiosity,  which  is  much  piqued  on 
one  point." 

He  looked  disturbed.  "What?  what?"  he 
said  hastily.  "  Curiosity  is  a  dangerous  peti- 
tioner; it  is  well  I  have  not  taken  a  vow  to 
accord  every  request — " 

"But  there  can  be  no  danger  in  complying 
with  this,  sir." 

"  Utter  it,  Jane ;  but  I  wish  that  instead  of 
a  mere  inquiry  into,  perhaps  a  secret,  it  was  a 
wish  for  half  my  estate.') 

"  Now,  king  Ahasuerus  !  What  do  I  want 
with  half  your  estate  ?  Do  you  think  I  am  a 
Jew-usurer,  seeking  good  investment  in  land? 
I  would  much  rather  have  all  your  confidence. 
You  will  not  exclude  me  from  your  confidence, 
if  you  admit  me  to  your  heart  ?" 

"  You  are  welcome  to  all  of  my  confidence 
that  is  worth  having,  Jane;  but,  for  God's 
sake,  don't  desire  a  useless  burden  !  Don't 
long  for  poison — don't  turn  out  a  downright 
Eve  on  my  hands  !" 

"Why  not,  sir?  You  have  just  been  telling 
me  how  much  you  like  to  be  conquered,  and 
how  pleasant  overpersuasion  is  to  you.  Don't 
you  think  I  had  better  take  advantage  of  the 
confession,  and  begin  and  coax,  and  entreat — 
even  cry  and  be  sulky  if  necessary — for  the 
sake  of  a  mere  essay  of  my  power  ?" 

"  I  dare  you  to  any  such  experiment.  En- 
croach, presume  and  the  game  is  up." 

"Is  it,  sir?  You  soon  give  in.  How  stern 
you  look  now  !  Your  eyebrows  have  become 
as  thick  as  my  finger,  and  your  forehead  re- 
sembles, what,  in  some  very  astonishing  jx>etr7, 


JANE  EYRE. 


101 


I  once  saw  styled,  *a  blue-piled  Ihunder-loft.' 
That  will  be  your  married  look,  sir,  I  suppose  1" 

"  If  that  will  be  your  married  look,  I  as  a 
Christian,  will  soon  give  up  the  notion  of  con- 
sorting with  a  mere  sprite  or  salamander.  But 
what  had  you  to  ask,  thing? — out  with  it." 

"  There,  you  are  less  than  civil  now  ;  and  I 
like  rudeness  a  great  dear  better  than  flattery. 
I  had  rather  be  a  thing  than  an  angel.  This  is 
what  I  have  to  ask :  Why  did  you  take  such 
pains  to  make  me  believe  you  wished  to  marry 
Miss  Ingram  V 

"  Is  that  all  1  Thank  God,  it  is  no  worse  !" 
And  now  he  unknit  his  black  brows  ;  looked 
down,  smihng  at  me,  and  stroked  my  hair,  as  if 
well  pleased  at  seeing  a  danger  averted.  "  I 
think  I  may  confess,"  he  continued,  "  even  al- 
though I  should  make  you  a  little  indignant, 
Jane — and  I  have  seen  what  a  fire-spirit  you 
can  be  when  you  are  indignant.  You  glowed 
in  the  cool  moonlight  last  night,  when  you 
mutinied  against  fate,  and  claimed  your  rank 
as  my  equal.  Janet,  by  the  by,  it  was  you  who 
made  me  the  offer." 

"  Of  course  I  did.  But  to  the  point,  if  you 
please,  sir — Miss  Ingram!" 

"  Well,  I  feigned  courtship  of  Miss  Ingram, 
because  I  wished  to  render  you  as  madly  in 
love  with  me  as  I  was  with  you  ;  and  I  knew 
jealousy  would  be  the  best  ally  I  could  call  in 
for  the  furtherance  of  that  end." 

"  Excellent !  Now  you  are  small — not  one 
whit  bigger  than  the  end  of  my  little  finger.  It 
was  a  burning  shame,  and  a  scandalous  dis- 
grace to  act  in  that  way.  Did  you  think  noth- 
ing of  Miss  Ingram's  feelings,  sirV 

"  Her  feelings  are  concentrated  in  one — 
pride ;  and  that  needs  humbling.  Were  you 
jealous,  Jane!" 

"  Never  mind,  Mr.  Rochester  ;  it  is  in  no 
way  interesting  to  you  to  know  that.  Answer 
me  truly  once  more.  Do  you  think  Miss  In- 
gram will  not  suflfer  from  your  dishonest 
coquetry  ?  Won't  she  feel  forsaken  and  de- 
serted 1" 

"  Impossible ! — when  I  told  you  how  she,  on 
the  contrary,  deserted  me  ;  the  idea  of  my  in- 
solvency cooled,  or.  rather,  extinguished,  her 
flame  in  a  moment."    ' 

"You  have  a  curious  designing  mind,  Mr. 
Rochester.  I  am  afraid  your  principles  on 
some  points  are  eccentric." 

"  My  principles  were  never  trained,  Jane ; 
they  may  have  grown  a  little  awry  for  want  of 
attention." 

"  Once  again,  seriously.  May  I  enjoy  the 
great  good  that  has  been  vouchsafed  to  me, 
without  fearing  that  any  one  else  is  suffering 
the  bitter  pain  I  myself  felt  a  while  agol" 

"  That  you  may,  my  good  little  girl :  there  is 
not  another  being  in  the  world  has  the  same 
pure  love  for  me  as  yourself — for  I  lay  that 
pleasant  unction  to  my  soul,  Jane,  a  belief  in 
your  affection." 

I  turned  my  lips  to  the  hand  that  lay  on  my 
shoulder.  I  loved  him  very  much — more  than 
I  could  trust  myself  to  say — more  than  words 
had  power  to  express. 

"  Ask  something  more,"  he  said  presently  ; 
"  it  is  my  delight  to  be  entreated,  and  to  yield." 
"  I  was  again  ready  with  my  request.    "  Com- 
municate your  intentions  to  Mrs.  Fairfax,  sir : 


she  saw  me  with  you  last  night  in  the  hall,  and 
she  was  shocked.  Give  her  some  explanation 
before  I  see  her  again.  It  pains  me  to  be  mis- 
judged by  so  good  a  woman." 

"  Go  to  your  room,  and  put  on  your  bonnet," 
he  replied.  "  I  mean  you  to  accompany  me  to 
Millcote  this  morning  ;  and  while  you  prepare 
for  the  drive,  I  will  enlighten  the  old  lady's  un- 
derstanding. Did  she  think,  Janet,  you  had 
given  the  world  for  love  and  considered  it  well 
lost  V 

"T  believe  she  thought  I  had  forgotten  my 
station  ;  and  you  yours,  sir." 

"  Station  !  station  ! — your  station  is  in  my 
heart,  and  on  the  necks  of  those  who  would 
insult  you,  now  or  hereafter.     Go." 

"  I  was  soon  dressed  ;  and  when  I  heard  Mr. 
Rochester  quit  Mrs.  Fairfax's  parlor,  I  hurried 
down  to  it.  The  old  lady  had  been  reading  her 
morning  portion  of  Scripture — the  lesson  for  the 
day  ;  her  Bible  lay  open  before  her,  and  her 
spectacles  were  upon  it.  Her  occupation,  sus- 
pended by  Mr.  Rochester's  announcement, 
seemed  now  forgotten  ;  her  eyes,  fixed  on  the 
blank  wall  opposite,  expressed  the  surprise  of  a 
quiet  mind,  stirred  by  unwonted  tidings.  See- 
ing me,  she  roused  herself;  she  made  a  sort 
of  effort  to  smile,  and  framed  a  few  words  of 
congratulation  ;  but  the  smile  expired,  and  the 
sentence  was  abandoned  unfinished.  She  put 
up  her  spectacles,  shut  the  Bible,  and  pushed 
her  chair  back  from  the  table. 

"  I  feel  so  astonished,"  she  began,  "I  hardly 
know  what  to  say  to  you,  Miss  Eyre.  I  have 
surely  not  been  dreaming,  have  1 1  Sometimes 
I  half  fall  asleep  when  I  am  sitting  alone,  and 
fancy  things  that  have  never  happened.  It 
has  seemed  to  me  more  than  once,  when  I 
have  been  in  a  doze,  that  my  dear  husband, 
who  died  fifteen  years  since,  has  come  in  and 
sat  down  beside  me ;  and  that  I  have  even 
heard  him  call  me  by  my  name,  Alice,  as  he  used 
to  do.  Now,  can  you  tell  me  whether  it  is  ac- 
tually true  that  Mr.  Rochester  has  asked  you 
to  marry  him!  Don't  laugh  at  me.  But  I 
really  thought  he  came  in  here  five  minutes  ago, 
and  said  that  in  a  month  you  would  be  his 
wife." 

"  He  has  said  the  same  thing  to  me,"  I  re- 
plied. 

"  He  has  !  Do  you  believe  him  1  Have  you 
accepted  him!" 

"  Yes." 

She  looked  at  me  bewildered. 

"  I  could  never  have  thought  it.  He  is  a 
proud  man  ;  all  the  Rochesters  were  proud ; 
and  his  father  at  least  liked  money.  He,  too, 
has  always  been  called  careful.  He  means  to 
marry  you!" 

"  He  tells  me  so." 

She  surveyed  my  whole  person  ;  in  her  eyes 
I  read  that  they  had  found  no  charm  powerful 
enough  to  solve  the  enigma. 

"It  passes  me!"  she  continued;  "bat  no 
doubt  it  is  true,  since  you  say  so.  How  it  will 
answer  I  can  not  tell ;  I  really  don't  know. 
Equality  of  position  and  fortune  is  often  advisa- 
ble in  such  cases  ;  and  there  are  twenty  years 
of  difference  in  your  ages.  He  might  almost 
be  your  father." 

"  No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Fairfax  !"  exclaimed  I, 
nettled  ;  "  he  is  nothing  like  my  father  ^    No 


103 


JANE  EYRE. 


6ne,  who  saw  us  together,  would  suppose  it  for 
an  instant.  Mr.  Kochester  looks  as  young,  and 
is  as  young  as  some  men  at  five-and-twenty." 

"  Is  it  really  for  love  he  is  going  to  marry 
you  ?"  she  asked. 

I  was  so  hurt  by  her  coldness  and  skepticism, 
that  the  tears  rose  to  -my  eyes. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  grieve  you,"  pursued  the 
widow,  "  but  you  are  so  young  and  so  little  ac- 
quainted with  men,  I  wished  to  put  you  on  your 
guard.  It  is  an  old  saying  that  'all  is  not  gold 
that  glitters  ;'  and  in  this  case  I  do  fear  there 
will  be  something  found  to  be  different  to  what 
either  you  or  I  expect." 

"Why!  am  I  a  monsterV  I  said;  "is  it 
impossible  that  Mr.  Rochester  should  have  a 
sincere  affection  for  mel" 

"  No,  you  are  very  well,  and  much  improved 
of  late  ;  and  Mr.  Rochester,  I  dare  say,  is  fond 
of  you.  I  have  always  noticed  that  you  were 
a  sort  of  pet  of  his.  There  arc  times  when,  for 
your  sake,  I  have  been  a  little  uneasy  at  his 
marked  preference,  and  have  wished  to  put  you 
on  your  guard  ;  but  I  did  not  like  to  suggest 
even  the  possibility  of  wrong.  I  knew  such 
an  idea  would  shock,  perhaps  offend  you  ;  and 
yon  were  so  discreet  and  so  thoroughly  modest 
and  sensible,  I  hoped  you  might  be  trusted  to 
protect  yourself  Last  night  I  can  not  tell  you 
■what  I  suffered  when  I  sought  ail  over  the 
house,  and  could  find  you  nowhere,  nor  the 
master  either  ;  and  then,  at  twelve  o'clock,  saw 
you  come  in  with  him." 

"Well,  never  mind  that  now,"  I  interrupted, 
impatiently  ;  "  it  is  enough  that  all  was  right." 

"I  hope  all  will  be  right  in  the  end,"  she 
said ;  "  but,  believe  me,"  you  can  not  be  too 
careful.  Try  and  keep  Mr.  Rochester  at  a  dis- 
tance ;  distrust  yourself  as  well  as  him.  Gen- 
tlemen in  his  station  are  not  accustomed  to 
marry  their  governesses." 

I  was  growing  truly  irritated  ;  happily,  Adele 
ran  in. 

"Let  me  go — let  me  go  to  Millcote,  too  !" 
she  cried.  "  Mr.  Rochester  won't,  though 
there  is  so  much  room  in  the  new  carriage. 
Beg  him  to  let  me  go,  mademoiselle." 

"  That  I  will,  Adtle  ;"  and  I  hastened  away 
with  her,  glad  to  quit  my  gloomy  monitress. 
The  carriage  was  ready ;  they  were  bringing 
it  round  to  the  front,  and  my  master  was  pacing 
the  pavement,  Pilot  following  him  backward 
and  forward. 

'Adele  may  accompany  us,  may  she  not. 


sir 


■J" 


"  I  told  her  no.  I'll  have  no  brats  !  I'll  have 
only  you." 

"  Do  let  her  go,  Mr.  Rochester,  if  you  please  ; 
jt  would  be  better." 

"  Not  it — she  will  be  a  restraint." 

He  was  quite  peremptory,  both  in  look  and 
voice.  The  chill  of  Mrs.  Fairfax's  warnings, 
and  the  damp  of  her  doubts,  were  upon  me  ; 
something  of  unsubstantiality  and  uncertainty 
had  beset  my  hopes.  I  half  lost  the  sense  of 
power  over  him.  I  was  about  mechanically  to 
obey  him,  without  further  remonstrance  ;  but 
as  he  helped  me  into  the  carriage,  he  looked  at 
my  face. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked;  "all  the 
sunshine  is  gone.  Do  you  really  wish  the  bairn 
to  go  1     Will  it  annoy  you  if  she  is  left  behind  ?" 


"  I  would  far  rather  she  went,  sir." 
"  Then  off  for  your  bonnet,  and  back,  like  a 
flash  of  lightning  !"  cried  he  to  Adele. 

She  obeyed  him  with  what  speed  she  might. 
"After  all,  a  single  morning's   interruption 
will  not  matter  much,"  said  he,  "  when  I  mean 
shortly  to  claim  you,  your  thoughts,  conversa- 
tion, and  company,  for  life." 

Ad6le,  when  lifted  in,  commenced  kissing 
me,  by  way  of  expressing  her  gratitude  for  my 
intercession  ;  she  was  instantly  stowed  away 
into  a  corner  on  the  other  side  of  him.  She 
then  peeped  round  to  where  I  sat ;  so  stern  a 
neighbor  was  too  restrictive;  to  him,  in  his 
present  fractious  mood,  she  dared  whisper  no 
observations,  nor  ask  of  him  any  information. 

"  Let  her  come  to  me,"  I  entreated  ;  "  she 
will,  perhaps,  trouble  you,  sir ;  there  is  plenty 
of  room  on  this  side." 

He  handed  her  over  as  if  she  had  been  a  lap- 
dog  ;  "  I'll  send  her  to  school  yet,"  he  said,  but 
now  he  was  smiling. 

Ad^le  heard  him,  and  asked  if  she  was  to  go 
to  school  "sans  mademoiselle  1" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "absolutely  sans  made- 
moiselle ;  fori  am  to  take  mademoise'le  to  the 
moon,  and  there  I  shall  seek  a  cave  in  one  of 
the  white  valleys  among  the  volcano-tops,  and 
mademoiselle  shall  live  with  me  there,  and  only 
me." 

"  She  will  have  nothing  to  eat — you  will 
starve  her,"  observed  Adele. 

"I  shall  gather  manna  for  her  morning  and 
night  ;  the  plains  and  hillsides  in  the  moon  are 
bleached  with  manna,  Adele." 

"  She  will  want  to  warm  herself;  what  will 
she  do  for  a  fire  1" 

"  Fire  rises  out  of  the  lunar  mountains  ;  when 
she  is  cold,  I'll  carry  her  up  to  a  peak  and  lay 
her  down  on  the  edge  of  a  crater." 

"  Oh,  qu'elle  y  sera  mal — pen  comfortable ! 
And  her  clothes,  they  will  wear  out ;  how  can 
she  get  new  ones'!" 

Mr.  Rochester  professed  to  be  puzzled. 
"Hem!"  said  he.  "What  would  you  do, 
Adele  1  Cudgel  your  brains  for  an  expedient. 
How  would  a  white  or  a  pink  cloud  answer  for 
a  gown,  do  you  think?  And  one  could  cut  a 
pretty  enough  scarf  outof  a"  rainbow." 

"She  is  far  better  as  she  is,"  concluded 
Adele,  after  musing  some  time  ;  "besides,  she 
would  get  tired  of  living  with  only  you  in  the 
mt)on.  If  I  were  mademoiselle,  I  would  never 
consent  to  go  with  you." 

"She  has  consented — she  has  pledged  her 
word." 

"  But  you  can't  get  her  there ;  there  is  no 
road  to  the  moon — it  is  all  air,  and  neither  you 
nor  she  can  fly." 

"Adele,  look  at  that  field."  We  were  now 
outside  Thornfield  gates,  and  bowling  lightly 
along  the  smooth  road  to  Millcote,  where  the 
dust  was  well  laid  by  the  thunder-storm,  and 
where  the  low  hedges  and  lofty  timber  trees  on 
each  side  glistened  green,  and  rain-refreshed. 

"  In  that  field,  Adele,  I  was  walking  late  one 
evening  about  a  fortnight  since — the  evening 
of  the  day  you  helped  me  to  make  hay  in  the 
orchard  meadows ;  and  as  I  was  tired  with 
raking  swaths,  I  sat  down  to  rest  me  on  a 
stile  ;  and  there  I  took  out  a  little  book  and  a 
pencil,  and  began  to  write  about  a  misfortune 


JANE  EYRE. 


103 


that  befell  me  long  ago,  and  a  wish  I  had  for 
happy  days  to  come :  I  was  writing  away  very 
fast,  though  daylight  was  fading  from  the  leaf, 
when  something  came  up  the  path  and  stopped 
two  yards  off  me.  I  looked  at  it.  It  was  a  lit- 
tle thing  with  a  veil  of  gossamer  on  its  head. 
I  beckoned  it  to  come  near  me  :  it  stood  soon 
at  my  knee.  I  never  spoke  to  it,  and  it  never 
spoke  to  me,  in  words  :  but  I  read  its  eyes, 
and  it  read  mine  ;  and  our  speechless  colloquy 
■was  to  this  effect  : 

"  It  was  a  fairy,  and  come  from  Elf-land,  it 
said;  and  its  errand  was  to  make  me  happy; 
I  must  go  with  it  out  of  the  common  world  to 
a  lonely  place — such  as  the  moon,  for  instance 
— and  it  nodded  its  head  toward  her  horn,  rising 
over  Hay-hill :  it  told  me  of  the  alabaster  cave 
and  silver  vale  where  we  might  live.  I  said  I 
should  like  to  go  ;  but  reminded  it,  as  you  did 
me,  that  I  had  no  wings  to  fly. 

"  '  Oh,'  returned  the  fairy, '  that  does  not  sig- 
nify !  Here  is  a  talisman  will  remove  all  diffi- 
culties ;'  and  she  held  out  a  pretty  gold  ring. 
'Put  it,' she  said,  'on  the  fourth  finger  of  my  left 
hand,  and  I  am  yours,  and  you  are  mine  ;  and 
we  shall  leave  earth,  and  make  our  own  heaven 
yonder.'  She  nodded  again  at  the  moon.  The 
ring,  Adele,  is  in  my  breeches-pocket  under  the 
disguise  of  a  sovereign  :  but  I  mean  soon  to 
change  it  to  a  ring  again." 

"But  what  has  mademoiselle  to  do  with 
if?  I  don't  care  for  the  fairy;  you  said  it 
was  mademoiselle  you  would  take  to  the 
moon  — !"' 

"  Mademoiselle  is  a  fairy,"  he  said,  whisper- 
ing mysteriously.  Whereupon  I  told  her  not 
to  mind  his  badinage  ;  and  she,  on  her  part, 
evinced  a  fund  of  genuine  French  skepticism  ; 
denominating  Mr  Rochester  "  un  vrai  men- 
teur,"  and  assuring  him  that  she  made  no  ac- 
count whatever  of  his  "  Contes  de  fee,"  and 
that  "du  reste,  il  n'y  avait  pas  de  fees  etquand 
roSme  il  y  en  avait ;"  she  was  sure  they  would 
never  appear  to  him,  nor  ever  give  him  rings, 
or  offer  to  live  with  him  in  the  moon. 

The  hour  spent  at  Millcote  was  a  somewhat 
harassing  one  to  me.  Mr.  Rochester  obliged 
me  to  go  to  a  certain  silk  warehouse  ;  there  I 
was  ordered  to  choose  half  a  dozen  dresses.  I 
hated  the  business,  I  begged  leave  to  defer  it ; 
uo — it  should  be  gone  through  with  now.  By 
dint  of  entreaties  expressed  in  energetic  whis- 
pers, I  reduced  the  half-dozen  to  two ;  these, 
however,  he  vowed  he  would  select  himself 
With  anxiety  I  watched  his  eye  rove  over  the 
gay  stores  ;  he  fixed  on  a  rich  silk  of  the  most 
brilliant  amethyst  dye,  and  a  superb  pink  satin. 
I  told  him,  in  a  new  series  of  whispers,  that  he 
might  as  well  buy  me  a  gold  gown  and  a  silver 
bonnet  at  once ;  I  sliould  certainly  never  ven- 
ture to  wear  his  choice.  With  infinite  difficul- 
ty (for  he  was  stubborn  as  a  stone)  I  persuaded 
him  to  make  an  exchange  in  favor  of  a  sober 
black  satin  and  pearl-gray  silk.  "  It  might  pass 
for  the  present,"  he  said  ;  "  but  he  would  yet 
see  me  glittering  like  a  parterre." 

Glad  was  I  to  get  him  out  of  the  silk  ware- 
house, and  then  out  of  a  jeweler's  shop ;  the 
more  he  bous^ht  me,  the  more  my  cheek  burned 
with  a  sense  of  annoyance  and  degradation. 
As  we  re-entered  the  carriage,  and  I  sat  back 
feverish  and  fagged,  I  remembered  what  in  the 


hurry  of  events,  dark  and  bright,  I  had  wholly 
forgotten — the  letter  of  my  uncle,  John  Eyre, 
to  Mrs.  Reed ;  his  intention  to  adopt  me  and 
make  me  his  testatrix.  "  It  would,  indeed,  be 
a  relief,"  I  thought,  "  if  I  had  ever  so  small  aa 
independency  ;  I  never  can  bear  being  dressed 
like  a  doll  by  Mr.  Rochester,  or  sitting  like  a 
second  Danae  with  the  golden  shower  falling 
daily  round  me.  I  will  write  to  Madeira  the 
moment  I  get  home,  and  tell  my  uncle  John  I 
am  going  to  be  married,  and  to  whom  ;  if  I  had 
but  a  prospect  of  one  day  bringing  Mr.  Roches- 
ter an  accession  of  fortune,  I  could  better  en- 
dure to  be  kept  by  him  now."  And  somewhat 
relieved  by  this  idea  (which  I  failed  not  to  ex- 
ecute that  day),  I  ventured  once  more  to  meet 
my  master's  and  lover's  eye  ;  which  most  per- 
tinaciously sought  mine,  though  I  averted  both 
face  and  gaze.  He  smiled  ;  and  I  thought  his 
smile  was  such  as  a  sultan  might,  in  a  blissful 
and  fond  moment,  bestow  on  a  slave  his  gold 
and  gems  had  enriched  :  I  crushed  his  hand, 
which  was  ever  hunting  mine,  vigorously,  and 
thrust  it  back  to  him,  red  with  the  passionate 
pressure. 

"You  need  not  look  in  that  way,"  I  said; 
"  if  you  do,  I'll  wear  nothing  hut  my  old  Lo- 
wood  frocks  to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  I'll  be 
married  in  this  lilac  gingham — you  may  make 
a  dressing-gown  for  yourself  out  of  the  pearl- 
gray  silk,  and  an  infinite  series  of  waistcoats 
out  of  the  black  satm." 

He  chuckled  ;  he  rubbed  his  hands.  "  Oh, 
it  is  rich  to  see  and  hear  her  !"  he  exclaimed 
"  Is  she  original  1  Is  she  piquant !  I  would 
not  exchange  this  one  little  English  girl  for 
the  grand  Turk's  whole  seraglio,  gazelle-eyes, 
houri-forms  and  all  I" 

The  eastern  allusion  bit  me  again  :  "  I'll  not 
stand  you  an  inch  in  the  stead  of  a  seraglio,"  I 
said  ;  "  so  don't  consider  me  an  equivalent  for 
one  ;  if  you  have  a  fancy  for  any  thing  in  that 
line,  away  with  you,  sir,  to  the  bazars  of 
Stambonl  without  delay  ;  and  lay  out  in  exten- 
sive slave-purchases  some  of  that  spare  cash 
you  seem  at  a  loss  to  spend  satisfactorily  here." 

"  And  what  will  you  do,  Janet,  while  I  am 
bargaining  for  so  many  tons  of  flesh  and  such 
an  assortment  of  black  eyes  '" 

"  I'll  be  preparing  myself  to  go  out  as  a  mis- 
sionary to  preach  liberty  to  them  that  are  en- 
slaved— your  harem  inmates  among  the  rest. 
I'll  get  admitted  there,  and  I'll  stir  up  mutiny  ; 
and  you,  three-tailed  bashaw  as  you  are,  sir, 
shall  in  a  trice  find  yourself  fettered  among 
our  hands  ;  nor  will  I,  for  one,  consent  to  cut 
your  bonds  till  you  have  signed  a  charter,  the 
most  liberal  that  despot  ever  yet  conferred." 

"I   would    consent   to    be  at   your   mercy, 

Jane." 

"  I  would  have  no  mercy,  Mr.  Rochester,  if 
you  supplicated  for  it  with  an  eye  like  that. 
While  you  looked  so,  I  should  be  certain  that 
whatever  charter  you  might  grant  under  coer- 
cion, your  first  act,  when  released,  would  be  to 
violate  its  conditions." 

•'Why.  Jane,  what  would  you  have'  I  fear 
you  will  compel  me  to  go  through  a  private 
marriage  ceremony,  besides  that  performed  at 
the  altar.  You  will  stipulate,  I  see,  for  pecu- 
liar terms — what  will  they  be  V 

"  I  only  want  an  easy  mind,  sir  ;  not  crushed 


104 


JANE  EYRE. 


by  crowded   obligations.      Do  you  remember 

what  you  said  of  Celine  Varens'! — of  the  dia- 
monds, the  cashmeres  you  gave  herl  I  will 
not  be  your  English  Celine  Varens.  I  shall 
continue  to  aCt  as  Adele's  governess  ;  by  that, 
I  shall  earn  my  board  and  lodging,  and  thirty 
pounds  a-year  besides.  I'll  furnish  my  own 
wardrobe  out  of  that  money,  and  you  shall  give 
me  nothing,  but — " 

♦'Well,  but  whaf!" 

"  Your  regard  ;  and  if  I  give  you  mine  in  re- 
tQrn,  that  debt  will  be  quit." 

"  Well,  for  cool  native  impudence,  and  pure 
innate  pride,  you  haven't  your  equal,"  said  he. 
We  are  now  approaching  Thornfield.  "  Will 
it  please  you  to  dine  with  me  to-day  1"  he 
asked,  as  we  re-entered  the  gates. 

"No,  thank  you,  sir." 

"And  what  for,  'no,  thank  you?'  if  one  may 
inquire." 

"  I  never  have  dined  with  you,  sir  ;  and  I 
see  no  reason  why  I  should  now ;  till — " 

"  Till  what  1    You  delight  in  half  phrases." 

"Till  I  can't  help  it." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  eat  like  an  ogre,  or  a 
ghoul,  that  you  dread  being  the  companion  of 
my  repast?" 

"  I  have  formed  no  suppositions  on  the  sub- 
ject, sir  ;  but  I  want  to  go  on  as  usual  for  an- 
other month." 

"  You  will  give  up  your  governessing  slavery 
at  once." 

"  Indeed  I  begging  your  pardon,  sir,  I  shall 
not.  I  shall  just  go  on  with  it  as  usual.  I  shall 
keep  out  of  your  way  all  day,  as  i  have  been  ac- 
customed to  do  ;  you  may  send  for  me  in  the 
evening,  when  you  feel  disposed  to  see  me, 
and  I'll  come  then  ;  but  at  no  other  time." 

"  I  want  a  smoke,  Jane,  or  a  pinch  of  snuff. 
to  comfort  me  under  all  this  '  pour  me  donner 
une  contenance,'  as  Adele  would  say  ;  and  un- 
fortunately, I  have  neither  my  cigar-case  nor 
my  snuff-box.  But  listen — whisper — it  is  your 
time,  now,  little  tyrant,  but  it  will  be  mine 
presently  ;  and  when  once  I  have  fairly  seized 
you,  to  have  and  to  hold,  I'll  just — figuratively 
speaking — attach  you  to  a  chain  like  this 
(touching  his  watch-guard).  Yes,  bonny  wee 
thing,  I'll  wear  you  in  my  bosom,  lest  my  jew- 
el I  should  tyne." 

He  said  this  as  he  helped  me  to  alight  from 
the  carriage  ;  and  while  he  afterward  lifted  out 
Ad^le,  I  entered  the  house,  and  made  good  my 
retreat  up  stairs. 

He  duly  summoned  me  to  his  presence  in  the 
evening.  I  had  prepared  an  occupation  for 
him ;  ior  I  was  determined  not  to  spend  the 
whole  time  in  a  tete-a-tcte  conversation  :  I  re- 
membered his  fine  voice ;  I  knew  he  liked  to 
sing — good  singers  generally  do.  I  was  no 
vocalist  myself,  and,  in  his  fastidious  judgment, 
no  musician  either  ;  but  I  delighted  in  listening 
when  the  performance  was  good.  No  sooner 
had  twilight,  that  hour  of  romance,  begun  to 
lower  her  blue  and  starry  banner  over  the  lat- 
tice, than  I  rose,  opened  the  piano,  and  en- 
treated him,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  to  give  me 
a  song.  He  said  I  was  a  capricious  witch,  and 
that  he  would  rather  sing  another  time  ;  but  I 
averred  that  no  limc  was  like  the  present. 

"  Did  I  like  his  voice  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Very  much."     I  was  not  fond  of  pampering 


that  susceptible  vanity  of  his  ;  but  for  onoe, 
and  from  motives  of  expediency,  I  would  e'en 
soothe  and  stimulate  it. 

"  Then,  Jane,  you  must  play  the  accompani- 
ment." 

"  Very  well,  sir,  I  will  try." 

I  did  try,  but  was  presently  swept  oflf  the 
stool  and  denominated,  "  a  little  bungler."  Be- 
ing pushed  unceremoniously  to  one  side — which 
was  precisely  what  I  wished — he  usurped  my 
place,  and  proceeded  to  accompany  himself; 
for  he  could  play  as  well  as  sing.  I  hied  me  to 
the  window-recess ;  and  while  I  sat  there  and 
looked  out  on  the  still  tiee^  and  dim  lawn,  to  a 
sweet  air  was  sung  in  mellow  tones,  the  follow- 
ing strain  : 

The  truest  love  that  ever  heart 

Felt  at  its  kindled  core 
Did  through  each  vein,  in  quickened 'start. 

The  lido  of  being  pour. 
Her  coming  was  my  hope  each  day, 

Her  parting  was  my  pain  ; 
The  chance  that  did  her  steps  delay, 

Was  ice  in  every  vein, 
luireamed  it  would  be  nnnneless  bliss, 

As  I  loved,  loved  lo  be  ; 
And  to  this  object  did  I  press 

As  blind  as  eagerly. 
But  wide  as  pathless  was  the  space 

That  lay,  our  lives,  between, 
And  dangerous  as  the  foamy  race 

Of  ocean-surges  green. 
And  haunted  as  a  robber-path 

Through  wilderness  or  wood 
For  Might  and  Right,  and  Woe  and  Wrath, 

Between  our  spirits  stood. 
I  dangers  dared  ;  I  hind'rance  Ecorned ; 

I  omens  did  defy: 
Whatever  menaced,  harassed,  warned, 

I  passed  impetuous  by. 
On  sped  my  rainbow,  fast  as  light ; 

I  flew  as  in  a  dream  ; 
Far  glorious  rose  upon  my  sight 

That  child  of  Shower  and  Gleam. 
gtill  bright  on  clouds  of  suffering  dim 

Shines  that  soft,  solemn  joy  ; 
Nor  care  I  now,  how  dense  and  grim 

Disasters  gather  nigh : 
I  care  not  in  this  moment  sweet, 

Though  all  I  have  rushed  o'er 
Should  come  on  pinion,  strong  and  fleet, 

Proclaiming  vengeance  sore : 
Though  haughty  Hate  should  strike  me  down, 

Right,  bar  approach  to  me. 
And  grinding  might,  with  furious  frown, 

Swear  endless  enmity. 
My  love  has  placed  her  little  hand 

With  noble  faith  in  mine, 
And  vowed  Uiat  wedlock's  sacred  band 

Our  natures  shall  entwine. 
My  love  has  sworn,  with  sealing  kiss. 

With  me  to  live — to  die  ; 
I  have  at  last  my  nameless  bliss : 

As  I  love — loved  am  1 1 

He  rose  and  came  toward  me,  and  I  saw  his 
face  all  kindled,  and  his  full  falcon-eye  flashing, 
and  tenderness  and  passion  in  every  lineament. 
I  quailed  momentarily — then  I  rallied.      Soft 

i  scene,  daring  demonstration,  I  would  not  have  ; 
and  I  stood  in  peril  of  both ;  a  weapon  of  de- 
fense must  be  prepared — I  whetted  my  tongue ; 
as  he  reached  me,  I  asked  with  asperity,  "  whom 
he  was  going  to  marry  now?" 

I  "  That  was  a  strange  question  to  be  put  by 
his  darling  Jane." 

"  Indeed  !  I  considered  it  a  very  natural  and 

I  necessary  one  ;  he  had  talked  of  his  future  wife 

dying  with  him.     AVhat  did  he  mean  by  such  a 

pagan  idea?     /  had  no  intention  of  d>'ing  with 

him — he  might  dejiend  on  that." 

"Oh,  all  he  longed,  all  he  prayed  for,  was 


JANE  EYRE. 


106 


that  I  might  Hve  with  him  !  Death  was  not 
for  such  as  I." 

"  Indeed  it  was  ;  I  had  as  good  a  right  to  die 
when  my  time  came  as  he  had  ;  but  I  should 
bide  that  time,  and  not  be  hurried  away  in  a 
suttee." 

"Would  I  forgive  him  fot  the  selfish  idea, 
and  prove  my  pardon  by  a  reconciling  kiss'?" 

"  No,  I  would  rather  be  excused." 

Here  I  heard  myself  apostrophized  as  a 
"hard  little  thing;"  and  it  was  added,  "any 
other  woman  would  have  been  melted  to  mar- 
row at  hearing  such  stanzas  crooned  in  her 
praise." 

I  assured  him  I  was  naturally  hard — very 
flinty,  and  that  he  would  often  find  me  so ;  and 
that,  moreover,  I  was  determined  to  show  him 
divers  rugged  points  in  my  character  before  the 
ensuing  four  weeks  elapsed ;  he  should  know 
fully  what  sort  of  a  bargain  he  had  made,  while 
there  was  yet  time  to  rescind  it. 

"  Would  I  be  quiet,  and  talk  rationally  1" 

"  I  would  be  quiet  if  he  liked  ;  and  as  to  talk- 
ing rationally,  I  flattered  myself  I  was  doing 
that  now." 

He  fretted,  pished  and  pshawed.  "  Very 
good,"  I  thought;  "you  may  fume  and  fidget 
as  you  please,  but  this  is  the  best  plan  to  pursue 
with  you,  I  am  certain.  I  like  you  more  than 
I  can  say  ;  but  I'll  not  sink  into  a  bathos  of 
sentiment ;  and  with  this  needle  of  repartee  I'll 
keep  you  from  the  edge  of  the  gulf  too ;  and, 
moreover,  maintain  by  its  pungent  aid  that  dis- 
tance between  you  and  myself  most  conducive 
to  our  real  mutual  advantage." 

From  less  to  more,  I  worked  him  up  to  con- 
siderable irritation ;  then,  after  he  had  retired, 
in  dudgeon,  quite  to  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
I  got  up,  and  saying,  "  I  wish  you  good-night, 
sir,"  in  my  natural  and  wonted  respectful  man- 
ner, I  slipped  out  by  the  side-door  and  got 
away. 

The  system  thus  entered  on,  I  pursued  during 
the  whole  season  of  probation  ;  and  with  the 
best  success.  He  was  kept,  to  be  sure,  rather 
cross  and  crusty  ;  but  on  the  whole  I  could  see 
he  was  excellently  entertained ;  and  that  a 
lamb-like  submission  and  turtle-dove  sensibility, 
while  fostering  his  despotism  more,  would  have 
pleased  his  judgment,  satisfied  his  common- 
sense,  and  even  suited  his  taste,  less. 

In  other  people's  presence  I  was,  as  formerly, 
deferential  and  quiet ;  any  other  line  of  conduct 
being  uncalled-for  ;  it  was  only  in  the  evening 
conferences  I  thus  thwarted  and  afflicted  him. 
He  continued  to  send  for  me  punctually  the 
moment  the  clock  struck  seven  ;  though  when 
I  appeared  before  him  now,  he  had  no  such 
honeyed  terms  as  "  love"  and  "  darling"  on 
his  lips  ;  the  best  words  at  my  service  were 
"provoking  puppet,"  "malicious  elf,"  "sprite," 
"  changeling,"  &c.  For  caresses,  too,  I  now 
got  grimaces  ;  for  a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a 
pinch  on  the  arm  ;  for  a  kiss  on  the  cheek,  a 
severe  tweak  of  the  ear.  It  was  all  right :  at 
present  I  decidedly  preferred  these  fierce  favors 
to  any  thing  more  tender.  Mrs.  Fairfax,  I  saw, 
approved  me  ;  her  anxiety  on  my  account  van- 
ished ;  therefore  I  was  certain  I  did  well. 
Meantime,  Mr.  Rochester  affirmed  I  was  wear- 
ing him  to  skin  and  bone,  and  threatened  awful 
vengeance  for  my  present  conduct  at  some 


period  fast  coming.  I  laughed  in  my  sleeve  at 
his  menaces ;  "  I  can  keep  you  in  reasonable 
check  now,"  I  reflected  ;  "  and  I  don't  doubt  to 
be  able  to  do  it  hereafter  ;  if  one  expedient 
loses  its  virtue,  another  must  be  devised." 

Yet,  after  all,  my  task  was  not  an  easy  one ; 
often  I  would  rather  have  pleased  than  teased 
him.  My  future  husband  was  becoming  to  me 
my  whole  world,  and  more  than  the  world — 
almost  my  hope  of  heaven.  He  stood  between 
me  and  every  thought  of  religion,  as  an  eclipse 
intervenes  between  man  and  the  broad  sun.  I 
could  not,  in  those  days,  see  God  for  his  crea 
ture,  of  whom  I  had  made  an  idol. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  month  of  courtship  had  wasted ;  its 
very  last  hours  were  being  numbered.  There 
was  no  putting  off  the  day  that  advanced — the 
bridal  day ;  and  all  preparations  for  its  arrival 
were  complete.  I,  at  least,  had  nothing  more 
to  do.  There  were  my  trunks,  packed,  locked, 
corded,  ranged  in  a  row  along  the  wall  of  my 
little  chamber ;  to-morrow,  at  this  time,  they 
would  be  far  on  their  road  to  London  ;  and  so 
should  I  (D.  v.),  or,  rather,  not  I,  but  one  Jane 
Rochester,  a  person  whom  as  yet  I  knew  not. 
The  cards  of  address  alone  remained  to  nail 
on  ;  they  lay,  four  little  squares,  on  the  drawer. 
Mr.  Rochester  had  himself  written  the  direc- 
tion, "  Mrs.  Rochester,  Hotel,  London," 

on  each ;  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  afBx 
them,  or  to  have  them  affixed.  Mrs.  Roches- 
ter !  she  did  not  exist ;  she  would  not  be  born 
till  to-morrow,  some  time  after  eight  o'clock 
A.M.,  and  I  would  wait  to  be  assured  she  had 
come  into  the  world  alivfe,  before  I  assigned  to 
her  all  that  property.  It  was  enough  that,  in 
yonder  closet,  opposite  my  dressing-table,  gar- 
ments said  to  be  hers  had  already  displaced  my 
black  stuff  Lowood  frock  and  straw  bonnet ;  for 
not  to  me  appertained  that  suit  of  wedding 
raiment — the  pearl-colored  robe,  the  vapory 
veil,  pendent  from  the  usurped  portmanteau.  I 
shut  the  closet,  to  conceal  the  strange,  wraith- 
like apparel,  it  contained,  which,  at  this  even- 
ing hour — nine  o'clock — gave  out  certainly  a 
most  ghostly  shimmer  through  the  shadow  of 
my  apartment.  "  I  will  leave  you  by  yourself, 
white  dream,"  I  said  ;  "  I  am  feverish  ;  I  hear 
the  wind  blowing,  I  will  go  out  of  doors  and 
feel  it." 

It  was  not  only  the  hurry  of  preparation  that 
made  me  feverish  ;  not  only  the  anticipation  of 
the  great  change — the  new  life  which  was  to 
commence  to-morrow ;  both  these  circum- 
stances had  their  share,  doubtless,  in  pro- 
ducing that  restless,  excited  mood  which 
hurried  me  forth  at  this  late  hour  into  the 
darkening  grounds,  but  a  third  cause  influenced 
my  mind  more  than  they. 

I  had  at  heart  a  strange  and  anxious  thought. 
Something  had  happened  which  I  could  not 
comprehend.  No  one  knew  of  or  had  seen  the 
event  but  myself;  it  had  taken  place  the  pre- 
ceding night.  Mr.  Rochester,  that  night,  was 
absent  from  home,  nor  was  he  yet  returned. 
Business  had  called  him  to  a  small  estate  of 
two  or  three  farms  he  possessed,  thirty  miles 
oflf^business  it  was  requisite  he  should  settla 


106 


JANE  EYRE. 


in  person,  previously  to  his  meditated  depart-  I 
ure  from  England.  I  waited  now  his  return, 
eager  to  disburden  my  mind,  and  to  seek  of 
him  the'  solution  of  the  enigma  that  perplexed 
me.  Stay  till  he  comes,  reader;  and,  when  I 
disclose  my  secret  to  him,  you  shall  share  the 
confidence. 

I  sought  the  orchard,  driven  to  its  shelter  by 
the  wind,  which  all  day  had  blown  strong  and 
full  from  the  south,  without,  however,  bringing 
a  speck  of  rain.  Instead  of  subsiding  as  niglit 
drew  on,  it  seemed  to  augment  its  rush  and 
deepen  its  roar.  The  trees  blew-  steadfastly 
one  way,  never  writhing  round,  and  scarcely 
tossing  back  their  boughs  once  in  an  hour, 
so  continuous  was  the  strain  bending  their 
branchy  heads  northward  ;  the  clouds  drifted 
from  pole  to  pole,  fast  following,  mass  on  mass  ; 
no  glimpse  of  blue  sky  had  been  visible  that 
July  day. 

It  was  not  without  a  certain  wild  pleasure  I 
ran  before  the  wind,  delivering  my  trouble  of 
mind  to  the  measureless  air-torrent  thundering 
through  space.  Descending  the  laurel-walk, 
I  faced  the  wreck  of  the  chestnut-tree  ;  it 
stood  up,  black  and  riven  ;  the  trunk,  split 
down  the  center,  gaped  ghastly.  The  cloven 
halves  were  not  broken  from  each  other,  for 
the  firm  base  and  strong  roots  kept  them  un- 
sun-dered  below  ;  though  community  of  vitality 
was  destroyed — the  sap  could  flow  no  more  ; 
their  great  boughs  on  each  side  were  dead,  and 
next  winter's  tempests  would  be  sure  to  fell 
one  or  both  to  earth  ;  as  yet,  however,  they 
might  be  said  to  form  one  tree — a  ruin — but  an 
entire  ruin. 

"You  did  right  to  hold  fast  to  each  other," 
I  said,  as  if  the  monster  splinters  were  living 
things  and  could  hear  me;  "I  think,  scathed 
as  you  look,  and  charred  and  scorched,  there 
must  be  a  little  sense  of  life  in  you  yet,  rising 
out  of  that  adhesion  at  the  faithful,  honest 
roots  ;  you  will  never  have  green  leaves  more — 
never  more  see  birds  making  nests,  and  sing- 
ing idyls  in  your  boughs  ;  the  time  of  pleasure 
and  love  is  over  with  you  ;  but  you  are  not 
desolate ;  each  of  you  has  a  comrade  to  sym- 
pathize with  hiin  in  his  decay."  As  I  looked 
up  at  them,  the  moon  appeared  momentarily 
in  that  part  of  the  sky  which  filled  their  fis- 
sure ;  her  disk  was  blood-red  and  half  over- 
cast ;  she  seemed  to  throw  on  me  one  be- 
wildered, dreary  glance,  and  buried  herself 
again  instantly  in  the  deep  drift  of  cloud. 
The  wind  fell,  for  a  second,  round  Thornfield  ; 
but  far  away,  over  wood  and  water,  poured  a 
wild,  melancholy  wail ;  it  was  sad  to  listen  to, 
and  I  ran  off  again. 

Here  and  there  I  strayed  through  the  or- 
chard, gathering  up  the  apples  with  which  the 
grass  round  the  tree-roots  was  thickly  strewed. 
Then  I  employed  myself  in  dividing  the  ripe 
from  the  unripe  ;  I  carried  them  into  the  house 
and  put  them  away  in  the  store-room.  Then 
I  repaired  to  the  library  to  ascertain  whether 
the  fire  was  lighted  ;  for,  though  summer,  I 
knew  on  such  a  gloomy  evening  Mr.  Roch- 
ester would  like  to  see  a  cheerful  hearth 
when  became  in;  yes,  the  fire  had  been  kin- 
dled some  time,  and  burned  well.  I  placed 
his  arm-chair  by  the  chimney-corner  ;  I  wheel- 
ed the  table  near  it ;  I  let  down  the  curtain,  and 


had  the  candies  brought  in  ready  for  lighting. 
More  restless  than  ever,  when  I  had  completed 
these  arrangements  I  could  not  sit  still,  nor 
even  remain  in  the  house.  A  little  time-piece 
in  the  room  and  the  old  clock  in  the  hall  simul- 
taneously struck  ten. 

"How  late  it  grows!"  I  said.     "I  will  run 
down  to  the  gates  ;  it  is  moonlight  at  intervals  ; , 
I  can  see  a  good  way  on  the  road.     He  may  be ' 
coming  now,  and  to  meet  him  will  save  some 
minutes  of  suspense." 

The  wind  roared  high  in  the  great  trees 
which  embowered  the  gates  ;  but  the  road,  as 
far  as  I  could  see,  to  the  right  hand  and  the  left, 
was  all  still  and  solitary  ;  save  for  the  shadows 
of  clouds  crossing  it  at  intervals,  as  the  moon 
looked  out,  it  was  but  a  long,  pale  line,  unvaried 
by  one  moving  speck. 

A  puerile  tear  dimmed  my  eye  while  I  looked 
— a  tear  of  disappointment  and  impatience; 
ashamed  of  it,  I  wiped  it  away.  I  lingered ; 
the  moon  shut  herself  wholly  within  her  cham- 
ber, and  drew  close  her  curtain  of  dense  cloud; 
the  night  grew  dark  ;  rain  came  driving  fast  ou 
the  gale. 

"I  wish  he  would  come  !  I  wish  he  would 
come !"  I  exclaimed,  seized  with  hypochon- 
driac foreboding.  I  had  expected  his  arrival 
before  tea  ;  now  it  was  dark  ;  what  could  keep 
him  1  Had  an  accident  happened  1  The  event 
of  last  night  again  recurred  to  me.  I  inter- 
preted it  as  a  warning  of  disaster ;  I  feared  my 
hopes  were  too  bright  to  be  realized  ;  and  I  had 
enjoyed  so  much  bliss  lately  that  I  imagined  my 
fortune  had  passed  its  meridian,  and  must  now 
decline. 

"  Well,  I  can  not  return  to  the  house,"  I 
thought ;  "  I  can  not  sit  by  the  fireside  while 
he  is  abroad  in  inclement  weather.  Better  tire 
my  limbs  than  strain  my  heart;  I  will  go  for- 
ward and  meet  him." 

I  set  out.  I  walked  fast,  but  not  far.  Ere  I 
had  measured  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  I  heard  the 
tramp  of  hoofs.  A  horseman  came  on,  full 
gallop — a  dog  ran  by  his  side.  Away  with  evil 
presentiment!  It  was  he.  Here  he  was,  mount- 
ed on  Mesrour,  followed  by  Pilot.  He  saw  me, 
fiir  the  moon  had  opened  a  blue  field  in  the  sky, 
and  rode  in  it  watery  bright ;  he  took  his  hat 
off  and  waved  it  round  his  head.  I  now  raa  to 
meet  him. 

"There!"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  stretched 
out  his  hand  and  bent  from  the  saddle ; 
"  You  can't  do  without  me,  that  is  evident. 
Step  on  my  boot-toe;  give  me  both  hands; 
mount !" 

I  obeyed  ;  joy  made  me  agile ;  I  sprung  up 
before  him.  A  hearty  kissing  I  got  for  a  wel- 
come, and  some  boastful  triumph,  which  I  swal- 
lowed as  well  as  I  could.  He  checked  himself 
in  his  exultation  to  demand,  "  But  is  there  any 
thing  the  matter,  Janet,  that  you  come  to 
meet  me  at  such  an  hour?  Is  there  any  thing 
wrong!" 

"  No  ;  but  I  thought  you  would  never  come. 
I  could  not  bear  to  wait  in  the  house  for  you, 
especially  wiih  this  rain  and  wind." 

"  Rain  and  wind  indeed  I  Ves.  you  are 
dripping  like  a  mermaid;  pull  my  cloak  round 
you  ;  but  I  think  you  are  feveri.sb,  Jane ;  both 
your  cheek  and  hand  are  burning  hot.  I  ask 
again,  is  there  any  thing  the  matter?" 


JANE  EYRE. 


107 


"  Nothing,  now  ;  I  am  neither  afraid  nor  un- 
happy." 

"  Then  you  have  been  both?" 

"  Rather — but  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  by  and 
by,  sir ;  and  1  dare  say  you  will  only  laugh  at 
me  for  my  ()ains." 

"  I'll  laugh  at  you  heartily  when  to-morrow 
is  past ;  till  then  I  dare  not ;  my  prize  is  not 
certain.  This  is  you  ;  who  have  been  as  slip- 
pery as  an  eel  this  last  month,  and  as  thorny 
as  a  brier-rose!  I  could  not  lay  a  finger  any 
where  but  I  was  pricked ;  and  now  I  seem  to 
have  gathered  up  a  stray  lamb  in  my  arms  ; 
you  wandered  out  of  the  fold  to  seek  your 
shepherd  ;  did  you,  Jane  1" 

"  I  wanted  you  ;  but  don't  boast.  Here  we 
are  at  Thornfield  ;  aovv  let  me  get  down." 

He  landed  me  on  the  pavement.  As  John 
took  his  horse,  and  he  followed  me  into  the 
hall,  he  told  me  to  make  haste  and  put  something 
dry  on,  and  then  to  return  to  him  in  the  library  ; 
and  he  stopped  me,  as  I  made  for  the  stair- 
case, to  extort  a  promise  that  I  would  not  be 
long  ;  nor  was  I  long  ;  in  five  minutes  I  rejoin- 
ed him.     I  found  him  at  supper. 

"  Take  a  seat,  and  bear  me  company,  Jane  ; 
please  God,  it  is  the  last  meal  but  one  you  will 
eat  at  Thornfield  Hall  for  a  long  time." 

I  sat  down  near  him  ;  but  told  him  I  could 
not  eat. 

"  Is  it  because  you  have  the  prospect  of  a  jour- 
ney before  you,  Jane  !  Is  it  the  thoughts  of  go- 
ing to  London  that  takes  away  your  appetite  V' 

"  I  can  not  see  my  prospects  clearly  to  night, 
sir  ;  and  I  hardly  know  what  thoughts  I  have 
in  my  head.     Every  thing  in  life  seems  unreal." 

"  Except  me  ;  I  am  substantial  enough — 
touch  me." 

"  You,  sir,  are  the  most  phantom-like  of  all ; 
you  are  a  mere  dream." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  laughing.  "  Is  that  a 
dream  1"  said  he,  placing  it  close  to  my  eyes. 
He  had  a  rounded,  muscular,  and  vigorous 
hand,  as  well  as  a  long,  strong  arm. 

"  Yes ;  though  I  touch  it,  it  is  a  dream," 
said  I,  as  I  put  it  down  from  before  rny  face. 
♦'Sir,  have  you  finished  supper  1" 

"  Yes,  Jane." 

I  rung  the  bell,  and  ordered  away  the  tray. 
"When  we  were  again  alone,  I  stirred  the  fi're, 
and  then  took  a  low  seat  at  my  master's  knee. 

"  It  is  near  midnight,"  I  said. 

"Yes  ;  but  remember,  Jane,  you  promised  to 
wake  with  me  the  night  before  my  wedding." 

"I  did  ;  and  I  will  keep  my  promise,  for  an 
hour  or  two  at  least ;  I  have  no  wish  to  go  to 
bed." 

"  Are  all  your  arrangements  complete?" 

"All,  sir." 

"  And  on  my  part,  likewise,"  he  returned. 
"I  have  settled  every  thing:;  and  we  shall 
leave  Thornfield  to-morrow,  within  half  an  hour 
after  our  return  from  church." 

"  Very  well,  sir." 

"With  what  an  extraordinary  smile  you 
uttered  that  word,  '  very  well,'  Jane  I  What 
a  bright  spot  of  color  you  have  on  each  cheek  ! 
and  how  strangely  your  eyes  glitter  !  Are  you 
well?" 

"  I  believe  I  am." 

"  Believe  !  What  is  the  matter  1  Tell  me 
what  you  feel." 


"  I  could  not,  sir ;  no  words  could  tell  you 
what  I  feel.  I  wish  this  present  hour  would 
never  end  ;  who  knows  with  what  fate  the 
next  may  come  charged!" 

"  This  is  hypochondria,  Jane.  You  have 
been  overexcited  or  overfatigued." 

"  Do  you,  sir,  feel  calm  and  happy?" 

"  Calm?  no;  but  happy — to  the  heart's  core." 

I  looked  up  at  him  to  read  the  signs  of  bliss 
in  his  face  ;  it  was  ardent  and  flushed. 

"Give  me  your  confidence,  Jane,"  he  said; ' 
"  relieve  your  mind  of  any  weight  that  oppresses 
it,  by  imparting  it  to  me.    What  do  you  fearl 
— that  I  shall  not  prove  a  good  husband?" 

"  It  is  the  idea  farthest  from  my  thoughts." 

"  Are  you  apprehensive  of  the  new  sphere 
you  are  about  to  enter?  of  the  life  into  which 
you  are  passing?" 

"No." 

"  You  puzzle  me,  Jane  ;  your  look  and  tone 
of  sorrowful  audacity  perplex  and  pain  rae.  I 
want  an  explanation." 

"  Then,  sir,  listen.  You  were  from  home 
last  night?" 

"  I  was  ;  I  know  that ;  and  you  hinted  a 
while  ago  at  something  which  had  happened 
in  my  absence — nothing,  probably,  of  conse- 
quence ;  but,  in  short,  it  has  disturbed  you.  Let 
me  hear  it.  Mrs.  Fairfax  has  said  something, 
perhaps?  or  you  have  overheard  the  servants 
talk?  Your  sensitive  self-respect  has  been 
wounded  ?" 

"No,  sir."  It  struck  twelve — I  waited  till 
the  time-piece  had  concluded  its  silver  chime, 
and  the  clock  its  hoarse,  vibrating  stroke,  and 
then  I  proceeded. 

"  All  day,  yesterday,  I  was  very  busy,  and 
very  happy  in  my  ceaseless  bustle  ;  for  I  am 
not,  as  you  seem  to  think,  troubled  by  any 
haunting  fears  about  the  new  sphere,  et  cetera  ; 
I  think  it  a  glorious  thing  to  have  the  hope  of 
living  with  you,  because  I  love  you.  No,  sir, 
don't  caress  me  now — let  me  talk  undisturbed. 
Yesterday  I  trusted  well  in  Providence,  and 
believed  that  events  were  working  together  for 
your  good  and  mine  ;  it  was  a  fine  day,  if  you 
recollect — the  calmness  of  the  air  and  sky  for- 
bade apprehensions  respecting  your  safety  or 
comfort  on  your  journey.  I  walked  a  little 
while  on  the  pavement  after  tea,  thinking  of 
you  ;  and  I  beheld  you  in  imagination  so  near 
me,  I  scarcely  missed  your  actual  presence. 
I  thought  of  the  life  that  lay  before  me — your 
life,  sir  —  an  existence  more  expansive  and 
stirring  than  my  own  ;  as  much  more  so  as  the 
depths  of  the  sea  to  which  the  brook  runs,  are 
than  the  shallows  of  its  own  strait  channel.  I 
wondered  why  moralists  call  this  world  a 
dreary  wilderness ;  for  me  it  blossomed  hke  a 
rose.  Just  at  sunset,  the  air  turned  cold  and 
the  sky  cloudy ;  I  went  in.  Sophie  called  me 
up  stairs  to  look  at  my  wedding-dress,  which 
they  had  just  brought ;  and  under  it  in  the  box 
I  found  your  present — the  veil  which,  in  your 
princely  extravagance,  you  sent  for  from  Lon- 
don ;  resolved,  I  suppose,  since  I  would  not 
have  jewels,  to  cheat  me  into  accepting  some- 
thing as  costly.  I  smiled  as  I  unfolded  it,  and 
devised  how  I  would  tease  you  about  your 
aristocratic  tastes,  and  your  efforts  to  mask 
your  plebeian  bride  in  the  attributes  of  a  peer- 
ess.    I  thought  how  I  would  carry  down  to  you 


108 


JANE  EYRE. 


the  square  of  unembroidered  blond  I  had  myself 
prepared  as  a  covering  for  my  low-born  head, 
and  ask  if  that  was  not  good  enough  for  a  wom- 
an who  could  bring  her  husband  neither  fortune, 
beauty,  nor  connections.  I  saw  plainly  how 
you  would  look  ;  and  heard  your  impetuous  re- 
publican answers,  and  your  haughty  disavowal 
of  any  necessity  on  your  part»to  augment  your 
•wealth,  or  elevate  your  standing,  by  marrying 
either  a  purse  or  a  coronet." 

"How  well  you  read  me,  you  witch  !"  inter- 
posed Mr.  Rochester :  "  but  what  did  you  find 
in  the  veil  besides  its  embroidery  ■!  Did  you 
find  poison,  or  a  dagger,  that  you  look  so  mourn- 
ful nowl" 

"  No,  no,  sir  ;  besides  the  delicacy  and  rich- 
ness of  the  fabric,  I  found  nothing  save  Fair- 
fax Rochester's  pride ;  and  that  did  not  scare 
me,  because  I  am  used  to  the  sight  of  the  de- 
mon. But,  sir,  as  it  grew  dark,  the  wind  rose  4 
it  blew  yesterday  evening,  not  as  it  blows  now, 
wild  and  high,  but  '  with  a  sullen,  moaning 
sound,'  far  more  eerie.  I  wished  you  were  at 
home.  I  came  into  this  room,  and  the  sight  of 
the  empty  chair  and  fireless  hearth  chilled  me. 
For  some  time  after  I  went  to  bed  I  could  not 
sleep — a  sense  of  anxious  excitement  distressed 
me.  The  gale  still  rising,  seemed  to  my  ear 
to  muffle  a  mournful  undersound  ;  whether  in 
the  house  or  abroad  I  could  not  at  first  tell,  but 
it  recurred,  doubtful  yet  doleful,  at  every  lull ; 
at  last  I  made  out  it  must  be  some  dog  howl- 
ing at  a  distance.  I  was  glad  when  it  ceased. 
On  sleeping,  I  continued  in  dreams  the  idea  of 
a  dark  and  gusty  night.  I  continued  also  the 
wish  to  be  with  you,  and  experienced  a  strange, 
regretful  consciousness  of  some  barrier  dividing 
us.  During  all  my  first  sleep,  I  was  following 
the  windings  of  an  unknown  road  ;  total  obscu- 
rity environed  me  ;  rain  pelted  me  ;  I  was  bur- 
dened with  the  charge  of  a  little  child  ;  a  very 
small  creature,  too  young  and  feeble  to  walk, 
and  which  shivered  in  my  cold  arms,  and  wail- 
ed piteously  in  my  ear.  I  thought,  sir,  that 
you  were  on  the  road  a  long  way  before  me ; 
and  I  strained  every  nerve  to  overtake  you,  and 
made  effort  on  effort  to  utter  your  name  and 
entreat  you  to  stop,  but  my  movements  were 
fettered,  and  my  voice  still  died  away  inarticu- 
late ;  while  you,  I  felt,  withdrew  farther  and 
farther  every  moment." 

"  And  these  dreams  weigh  on  your  spirits 
now,  Jane,  when  I  am  close  to  youl  Little 
nervous  subject !  Forget  visionary  woe,  and 
think  only  of  real  happiness  .'  You  say  you  love 
me,  Janet :  yes,  I  will  not  forget  that ;  and  you 
can  not  deny  it.  Those  words  did  not  die  inar- 
ticulate on  your  lips.  I  heard  them  clear  and 
soft :  a  thought  too  solemn  perhaps,  but  sweet 
as  music,  '  I  think  it  is  a  glorious  thing  to  have 
the  hope  of  living  with  you,  Edward,  because  I 
love  you.'    Do  you  love  me,  Jane  ?  repeat  it." 

"I  do,  sir,  I  do,  with  my  whole  heart." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  some  minutes'  silence, 
"  it  is  strange  ;  but  that  sentence  has  penetra- 
ted my  breast  painfully.  Why?  I  think  be- 
cause you  said  it  with  such  an  earnest,  religious 
energy  ;  and  because  your  upward  gaze  at  me 
now  is  the  very  sublime  of  faith,  truth,  and  de- 
votion ;  it  is  too  much  as  if  some  spirit  were 
near  me.  Look  wicked,  Jane,  as  you  know 
well  how  to  look ,  coin  one  of  your  wild,  sly, 


provoking  smiles  ;  tell  me  you  hate  me — tease 
me,  vex  me  ;  do  any  thing  but  move  me  ;  I 
would  rathei  be  incensed  than  saddened." 

*'  1  will  tease  you  and  vex  you  to  your  heart's 
content  when  I  have  finished  my  tale  ;  but  hear 
me  to  the  end." 

"  I  thought,  Jane,  you  had  told  me  all.  I 
thought  I  had  found  the  source  of  your  melan- 
choly in  a  dream  !" 

I  shook  my  head.  "What!  is  there  more? 
But  I  will  not  believe  it  to  be  any  thing  import- 
ant. I  warn  you  of  incredulity  beforehand. 
Go  on." 

The  disquietude  of  his  air,  the  somewhat  ap- 
prehensive impatience  of  his  manner,  surprised 
me  ;  but  I  proceeded. 

"  I  dreamed  another  dream,  sir  :  that  Thorn- 
field  Hall  was  a  dreary  ruin,  the  retreat  of  bats 
and  owls.  I  thought  that  of  all  the  stately  front 
nothing  remained  but  a  shell-like  wall,  very 
high  and  very  fragile-looking.  I  wandered,  on 
a  moonlight  night,  through  the  grass-grown  in- 
closure  within  ;  here  I  stumbled  over  a  marble 
hearth,  and  there  over  a  fallen  fragment  of  cor- 
nice. Wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  I  still  carried 
the  unknown  little  child  ;  I  might  no'i.  lay  it 
down  any  where,  however  tired  were  my  arms 
— however  much  its  weight  impeded  my  prog- 
ress, 1  must  retain  it.  I  heard  the  gallop  of  a 
horse  at  a  distance  on  the  road  ;  I  was  sure  it 
was  you  ;  and  you  were  departing  for  many 
years,  and  for  a  distant  country.  I  climbed  the 
thin  wall  with  frantic,  perilous  haste,  eager  to 
catch  one  glimpse  of  you  from  the  top;  the 
stones  rolled  from  under  my  feet,  the  ivy 
branches  I  grasped  gave  way,  the  child  clung 
round  my  neck  in  terror,  and  almost  strangled 
me  ;  at  last  I  gained  the  summit.  I  saw  you 
like  a  speck  on  a  white  track,  lessening  every 
moment.  The  blast  blew  so  strong  I  could  not 
stand.  I  sat  down  on  the  narrow  ledge;  I 
hushed  the  scared  infant  in  my  lap  ;  you  turned 
an  angle  of  the  road  ;  I  bent  forward  to  take  a 
last  look ;  the  wall  crumbled  ;  I  was  shaken  ; 
the  child  rolled  from  my  knee;  I  lost  my  bal 
ance,  fell,  and  woke." 

"Now,  Jane,  that  is  all." 

"  All  the  preface,  sir  ;  the  tale  is  yet  to  come. 
On  waking,  a  gleam  dazzled  my  eyes  ;  I  thought 
— oh,  it  is  daylight !  But  I  was  mistaken ;  it 
was  only  candle-light.  Sophie,  I  supposed,  had 
come  in.  There  was  a  light  on  the  dressing- 
table,  and  the  door  of  the  closet,  ^vhere,  before 
going  to  bed,  I  had  hung  my  wedding  dress  and 
veil,  stood  open  ;  I  heard  a  rustling  there.  I 
asked,  'Sophie,  what  are  you  doing?'  No  one 
answered  ;  but  a  form  emerged  from  the  closet ; 
it  took  the  light,  held  it  aloft  and  surveyed  the 
garments  pendent  from  the  portmanteau.  '  So- 
phie !  Sophie  !'  I  again  cried ;  and  still  it  was 
silent.  I  had  risen  up  in  bed,  I  bent  forward  ; 
first  surprise,  then  bewilderment,  came  over 
me  ;  and  then  my  blood  crept  cold  through  my 
veins.  Mr.  Rochester,  this  was  not  Sophie,  it 
was  not  Leah,  it  was  not  Mrs.  Fairfax ;  it  was 
not — no,  I  was  sure  of  it,  and  am  still — it  was 
not  even  that  strange  woman,  Grace  Poole." 

"  It  must  have  been  one  of  them, "-interrupt- 
ed my  master. 

"  No,  sir,  I  solemnly  assure  you  to  the  con- 
trary. The  shape  standing  before  me  had  nevei 
crossed  my  eyes  within  the  precincts  of  Thorn- 


JANE  EYRE. 


109 


field  Hall  before  ;  the  height,  the  contour  were 
new  to  me." 

"  Describe  it,  Jane." 

«•  It  seemed,  sir,  a  woman,  tall  and  large 
with  thick  and  dark  hair  hanging  long  down 
her  back.  1  know  not  what  dre&s  she  had  on  ; 
it  was  white  and  straight;  but  whether  gown, 
sheet,  or  shroud,  I  can  not  tell." 

"Did  you  see  her  facel" 

"Not  at  first.  But  presently  she  took  my 
veil  from  its  place;  she  held  it  up,  gazed  at  it 
long,  and  then  she  threw  it  over  her  own  head, 
and  turned  to  the  mirror.  At  that  moment  I 
saw  the  reflection  of  the  visage  and  features 
quite  distinctly  in  the  dark,  oblong  glass." 

"And  how  were  they  V 

"  Fearful  and  ghastly  to  me — oh,  sir,  I  never 
saw  a  face  like  it !  It  was  a  discolored  face — 
it  was  a  savage  face.  I  wish  I  could  forget  the 
roll  of  the  red  eyes  and  the  fearful  blackened 
inflation  of  the  lineaments  !" 

"  Ghosts  are  usually  pale,  Jane." 

"  This,  sir,  was  purple  ;  the  lips  were  swell- 
ed and  dark  ;  the  brow  furrowed  ;  the  black 
eyebrows  widely  raised  over  the  bloodshot  eyes. 
Shall  I  tell  you  of  what  it  reminded  me  V' 

"You  may." 

"Of  the  foul  German  specter,  the  Vampyre." 

"Ah!     What  did  it  dor- 

"  Sir,  it  removed  my  veil  from  its  gaunt  head, 
rent  it  in  two  parts,  and,  flinging  both  on  the 
floor,  trampled  on  them." 

"  Afterward  r' 

"It  drew  aside  the  window-curtain  and  look- 
ed out ;  perhaps  it  saw  dawn  approaching,  for, 
taking  the  candle,  it  retreated  to  the  door.  Just 
at  my  bedside  the  figure  stopped  ;  the  fiery  eye 
glared  upon  me — she  thrust  up  her  caudle  close 
to  my  face,  and  extinguished  it  under  my  eyes. 
I  was  aware  her  wild  visage  flamed  over  mine, 
and  I  lost  consciousness ;  for  the  second  lime 
in  my  life — only  the  second  time — I  became  in- 
sensible from  terror." 

"  Who  was  with  you  when  you  revived  T' 

"No  one,  sir,  but  the  broad  day.  I  rose, 
bathed  my  head  and  face  in  water,  drank  a  long 
draught  ;  felt  that  though  enfeebled  I  was  not 
ill,  and  determined  that  lo  none  but  you  would 
I  impart  this  vision.  Now,  sir,  tell  who  and 
what  that  woman  was  1" 

"  The  creature  of  an  over-stimulated  brain  ; 
that  is  certain.  Pmust  be  careful  of  you,  my 
treasure  ;  nerves  like  yours  were  not  made  for 
rough  handling." 

"  Sir,  depend  on  it,  my  nerves  were  not  in 
fault;  the  thing  was  real;  the  transaction  ac- 
tually took  place." 

"  And  your  previous  dreams,  were  they  real, 
too?  Is  Thornfield  Hall  a  ruini  Am  I  sev- 
ered from  you  by  insuperable  obstacles  1  Am 
I  leaving  you  without  a  tear,  without  a  kiss, 
without  a  wordl" 

"Not  yet." 

"Am  I  about  to  do  it?  Why  the  day  is  al- 
ready commenced  which  is  to  bind  us  indisso- 
lubly ;  and  when  we  are  once  united,  there 
shall  be  no  recurrence  of  these  mental  terrors, 
I  guaranty  that." 

"Mental  terrors,  sir !  I  wish  I  could  be- 
lieve them  to  be  only  such  ;  I  wish  it  more 
now  than  ever,  since  even  you  can  not  explain 
to  me  the  mystery  of  that  awful  visitant." 


"  And  since  I  can  not  do  it.^  Jane,  it  must 
have  been  unreal." 

"But,  sir,  when  I  said  so  to  myself  6n  rising 
this  morning,  and  when  I  looked  round  the 
room  to  gather  courage  and  comfort  from  the 
cheerful  aspect  of  each  familiar  object  in  full 
daylight,  there,  on  the  carpet,  I  saw,  what  gave 
the  distinct  lie  to  my  hypothesis— the  veil,  torn 
from  top  to  bottom  in  two  halves  !" 

I  felt  Mr.  Rochester  start  and  shudder ;  he 
hastily  flung  his  arms  round  me:  "Thank 
God  I"  he  exclaimed,  "  that,  if  any  thing  malig- 
nant did  come  near  you  last  night,  it  was  only 
the  veil  that  was  harmed.  Oh,  to  think  what 
might  have  happened !" 

He  drew  his  breath  short,  and  strained  me 
so  close  to  him  I  could  scarcely  pant.  After 
some  minutes'  silence,  he  continued,  cheerily, 

"  Now,  Janet,  I'll  explain  to  you  all  about  it. 
It  was  half  dream,  half  reality  ;  a  woman  did, 
I  doubt  not,  enter  your  room  ;  and  that  woman 
was,  must  have  been,  Grace  Poole.  You  call 
her  a  strange  being  yourself;  from  all  you 
know,  you  have  reason  so  to  call  her ;  what 
did  she  do  to  me  ?  what  to  Mason  1  In  a  state 
between  sleeping  and  waking,  you  noticed  her 
entrance  and  her  actions  ;  but  feverish,  almost 
delirious  as  you  were,  you  ascribed  to  her  a 
goblin  appearance  different  from  her  own  ;  the 
long  disheveled  hair,  the  swelled  black  face, 
the  exaggerated  stature,  were  figments  of  im- 
agination, results  of  nightmare  ;  the  spiteful 
tearing  of  the  veil  was  real,  and  it  is  like  her. 
I  see  you  would  ask  why  I  keep  such  a  woman 
in  my  house  ;  when  we  have  been  married  a 
year  and  a  day  I  will  tell  you,  but  not  now. 
Are  you  satisfied,  Jane?  Do  you  accept  my 
solution  of  the  mystery  V* 

I  reflected,  and  in  truth  it  appeared  to  me 
the  only  possible  one  ;  satisfied  I  was  not,  but 
to  please  him  I  endeavored  to  appear  so :  re- 
lieved, I  certainly  did  feel ;  so  I  answered  him 
with  a  contented  smile.  And  now,  as  it  was 
long  past  one,  I  prepared  to  leave  him. 

"  Does  not  Sophie  sleep  with  Adele  in  the 
nursery  V  he  asked,  as  I  lighted  ray  candle. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  And  there  is  room  enough  in  Adele's  little 
bed  for  you.  You  must  share  it  with  her  to- 
night, Jane;  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  incident 
you  have  related  should  make  you  nervous,  and 
I  would  rather  you  did  not  sleep  alone  ;  prom- 
ise me  to  go  to  the  nursery." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  so,  sir." 

"  And  fasten  the  door  securely  on  the  inside. 
Wake  Sophie  when  you  go  up  stairs,  under 
pretense  of  requesting  her  to  rouse  you  in  good 
time  to-morrow  -,  for  you  must  be  dressed  and 
have  finished  breakfast  before  eight.  And  now, 
no  more  somber  thoughts ;  chase  dull  care 
away,  Janet.  Don't  you  hear  to  what  soft 
whispers  the  wind  has  fallen  1  and  there  is  no 
more  beating  of  rain  against  the  window-panes  ; 
look  here  (he  lifted  up  the  curtain),  it  is  a  lovely 
night!" 

/t  was.  Half  heaven  was  pure  and  stainless: 
the  clouds,  now  trooping  before  the  wind,  which 
had  shilled  to  the  west,  were  filing  off  east- 
ward in  long,  silvered  columns.  The  moon 
shone  peacefully. 

"  Well,"  said  Mr.  Rochester,  gazing  inquir 
ingly  into  my  eyes,  "how  is  my  Janet  now  «" 


lie 


JANE  EYRE. 


"The  night  is  serene,  sir  ;  and  so  am  I." 
"  And  you  will  not  dream  of  separation  and 
sorrow  to-night,  but  of  happy  love  and  blissful 
union." 

This  prediction  was  but  half  fulfilled;  I  did  not 
indeed  dream  of  sorrow,  but  as  little  did  I  dream 
of  joy,  for  I  never  slept  at  all.  With  little  Adele 
in  my  arms,  I  watched  the  slumber  of  child- 
hood, so  tranquil,  so  passionless,  so  innocent, 
and  waited  for  the  coming  day  ;  all  my  life  was 
awake  and  astir  in  my  frame  ;  and  as  soon  as 
the  sun  rose,  I  rose  too.  I  remember  Adele 
clung  to  me  as  I  left  her  ;  I  remember  I  kissed 
her  as  I  loosened  her  little  hands  from  my  neck, 
and  I  cried  over  her  with  strange  emotion,  and 
quitted  her  because  I  feared  my  sobs  would 
break  her  still  sound  repose.  She  seemed  the 
emblem  of  my  past  life,  and  he,  I  was  now  to 
array  myself  to  meet,  the  dread,  but  adored, 
type  of  my  unknown  future  day. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Sophie  came  at  seven  to  dress  me ;  she  was 
very  long  indeed  in  accomplishing  her  task,  so 
long  that  Mr.  Rochester,  grown,  I  suppose  im- 
patient of  my  delay,  sent  up  to  ask  why  I  did 
not  come.  She  was  just  fastening  my  veil  (the 
plain  square  of  blond  after  all)  to  my  hair  with 
a  brooch  ;  I  hurried  from  under  her  hands  as 
soon  as  I  could. 

"Stop!"  she  cried,  in  French.  "Look  at 
yourself  in  the  mirrow,  you  have  not  taken  one 
peep." 

So  I  turned  at  the  door ;  I  saw  a  robed  and 
veiled  figure,  so  unlike  my  usual  self  that 
it  seemed  almost  the  image  of  a  stranger. 
"  Jane  !"  called  a  voice,  and  I  hastened  down. 
I  was  received  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  by  Mr. 
Rochester. 

"  Lingerer,"  he  said,  "  my  brain  is  on  fire 
with  impatience,  and  you  tarry  so  long  ! 

He  took  me  into  the  dining-room,  surveyed 
me  keenly  all  over,  pronounced  me  "  fair  as  a 
lily,  and  not  only  the  pride  of  his  life,  but  the 
desire  of  his  eyes,"  and  then  telling  me  he 
would  give  me  but  ten  minutes  to  eat  some 
breakfast,  he  rung  the  bell.  One  of  his  lately- 
hired  seH'ants,  a  footman,  answered  it. 

"Is  John  getting  the  carriage  ready  1" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Is  the  luggage  brought  downV 

"They  are  bringing  it  down  now,  sir." 

"Go  you  to  the  church  :  see  if  Mr.  Wood 
(the  clergyman)  and  the  clerk  are  there  ;  return 
and  tell  me." 

The  church,  as  the  reader  knows,  was  but 
just  beyond  the  gates ;  the  footman  soon  re- 
turned. 

"  Mr.  Wood  is  in  the  vestry,  sir,  putting  on 
his  surplice." 

"  And  the  carriage  1" 

"The  horses  are  harnessing." 

"  We  shall  not  want  it  to  go  to  church,  but  it 
must  be  ready  the  moment  we  return ;  all  the 
boxes  and  luggage  arranged  and  strapped  on, 
and  the  coachman  in  his  seat." 

"  Ves,  sir." 

"Jane,  are  you  ready"!" 

I  rose.  There  were  no  groomsmen,  no 
bridesmaids,  no  relatives  to  wait  for  or  mar- 


shal ;  none  but  Mr.  Rochester  and  I?  Mrs. 
Fairfax  stood  in  the  hall  as  we  passed.  I 
would  fain  have  spoken  to  her,  but  my  hand 
was  held  by  a  grasp  of  iron ;  I  was  hurried 
along  by  a  stride  I  could  hardly  follow  ;  and  to 
look  at  Mr.  Rochester's  face  was  to  feel  that 
not  a  second  of  delay  would  be  tolerated  for 
any  purpose.  I  wonder  what  other  bridegroom 
ever  looked  as  he  did — so  bent  up  to  a  purpose, 
so  grimly  resolute  ;  or  w  ho,  under  such  stead- 
fast brows,  ever  revealed  such  flanfing  and 
flashing  eyes. 

I  know  not  whether  the  day  was  fair  or  foul ; 
in  descending  the  drive,  I  gazed  neither  on  sky 
nor  earth  :  my  heart  was  with  my  eyes — and 
both  seemed  migrated  into  Mr.  Rochester's 
frame.  I  wanted  to  see  the  invisible  thing  on 
which,  as  we  went  along,  he  appeared  to  fasten 
a  glance  fierce  and  fell.  I  wanted  to  feel  the 
thoughts  whose  force  he  seemed  breasting  and 
resisting. 

At  the  church-yard  wicket  he  stopped  ;  he 
discovered  I  was  quite  out  of  breath.  •'  Am  I 
cruel  in  my  love  V  he  said.  "  Delay  an  in- 
stant ;  lean  on  me,  Jane." 

And  now  I  can  recall  the  picture  of  ihe  gray 
old  house  of  God  rising  calm  before  me,  of  a 
rook  wheeling  round  the  steeple,  of  a  ruddy 
morning  sky  beyond.  I  remember  something, 
too,  of  the  green  grave-mounds ;  and  I  have 
not  forgotten,  either,  two  figures  of  strangers, 
straying  among  the  low  hillocks,  and  reading 
the  mementoes  graven  on  the  few  mossy  head- 
stones. I  noticed  them,  because,  as  they  saw 
us,  they  passed  round  to  the  back  of  the 
church  ;  and  I  doubled  not  they  were  going  to 
enter  by  the  side-aisle  door,  and  witness  the 
ceremony.  By  Mr.  Rcchester  they  were  not 
observed ;  he  was  earnestly  looking  at  my 
face,  from  which  the  blood  had,  I  dare  sa}', 
momentarily  fled  ;  for  I  felt  my  forehead  dewy, 
and  my  cheeks  and  lips  cold.  When  I  rallied, 
which  I  soon  did,  he  walked  gently  with  me  up 
the  path  to  the  porch. 

We  entered  the  quiet  and  humble  temple  ; 
the  priest  waited  in  his  white  surplice  at  the 
lowly  altar,  the  clerk  beside  him.  All  was 
still ;  two  shadows  only  moved  in  a  remote 
corner.  My  conjecture  had  been  correct ;  the 
strangers  had  slipped  in  before  us,  and  they 
now  stood  by  the  vault  of  the  Rochesters, 
their  backs  toward  us,  viewing  through  the 
rails  the  old,  time-stained  marble  tomb,  where 
a  kneeling  angel  guarded  the  remains  of  Damer 
de  Rochester,  slain  at  Marston  Moor  in  the 
time  of  the  civil  wars,  and  of  Elizabeth,  his 
wife. 

Our  place  was  taken  at  the  communion-rails. 
Hearing  a  cautious  step  behind  me,  I  glanced 
over  my  shoulder ;  one  of  the  strangers — a 
gentleman,  evidently — was  advancing  up  the 
chancel.  The  service  began.  The  ex|)lanation 
of  the  intent  of  matrimony  was  gone  through  ; 
and  then  the  clergyman  came  a  step  farther 
forward,  and,  bendmg  slightly  toward  Mr. 
Rochester,  went  on. 

"  I  require  and  charge  you  both  (as  ye  will 
answer  at  the  dreadful  day  of  judgment,  when 
the  secrets  of  all  hearts  shall  bo  disclosed)  that 
if  either  of  you  know  any  impediment  why  ye 
may  not  lawfully  be  jomed  together  in  matri- 
mony, ye  do  now  confess  it;  for  be  ye  well 


JANE  EYRE. 


HI 


assured  that  so  many  as  are  coupled  together 
otliervvise  than  God's  Word  doth  allow,  are  not 
joined  together  by  God,  neither  is  their  matri- 
mony lawful." 

He  paused,  as  the  custom  is.  When  is  the 
pause  afier  that  sentence  ever  broken  by  reply! 
Not,  perhaps,  once  in  a  hundred  years.  And 
the  clergyman,  who  had  not  lified  his  eyes 
from  hts  book,  and  had  held  his  breath  but  for 
a  moment,  was  proceeding;  his  hand  was 
already  stretched  toward  Mr.  Rochester,  as  his 
lips  unclosed  to  ask,  "Wilt  thou  have  this 
woman  for  thy  wedded  wife?" — when  a  dis- 
tinct and  near  voice  said — 

"  The  marriage  can  not  go  on  ;  I  declare  the 
existence  of  an  impediment." 

The  clergyman  looked  up  at  the  speaker, 
and  stood  mule  ;  the  clerk  did  the  same  :  Mr. 
Rochester  moved  slightly,  as  if  an  earthquake 
had  rolled  under  his  leet ;  taking  a  firmer  loot- 
ing, and  not  turning  his  head  or  eyes,  he  said, 
"Proceed." 

Profound  silence  fell  when  he  had  uttered 
that  word,  with  deep  but  low  intonation. 
Presently  Mr.  Wood  said — 

"  I  can  not  proceed  without  some  investi- 
gation into  what  has  been  asserted,  and  evi- 
dence of  its  truth  or  falsehood." 

"The  ceremony  is  quite  broken  off,"  sub- 
joined the  voice  behind  us.  "  I  am  in  a  con- 
dition to  prove  my  allegation  ;  an  insuperable 
impediment  to  this  marriage  exists." 

Mr.  Rochester  heard,  but  heeded  no^;  he 
stood  stubborn  and  rigid,  making  no  move- 
ment but  to  possess  himself  of  my  hand. 
What  a  hot  and  strong  grasp  he  had ! — and 
how  like  quarried  marble  was  his  pale,  firm, 
massive  front  at  this  moment  !  How  his  eyes 
shone,  still  watchful,  and  yet  wild  beneath  ! 

Mr.  Wood  seemed  at  a  loss.  "  What  is  ^le 
nature  of  the  impediment  1"  he  asked.  "Per- 
haps it  may  be  got  over — explained  away  1" 

"  Hardly,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  have  called 
it  insuperable,  and  I  speak  advisedly." 

The  speaker  came  forward,  and  leaned  on 
the  rails.  He  continued,  uttering  each  word 
distinctly,  calmly,  steadily,  but  not  loudly, 

"  It  simply  consists  in  the  existence  of  a 
previous  marriage  ;  Mr.  Rochester  lias  a  wife 
now  living." 

My  nerves  vibrated  to  these  low-spoken 
words  as  they  had  never  vibrated  to  thunder — 
my  blood  felt  their  subtile  violence  as  it.  had 
never  felt  frost  or  fire  ;  but  I  was  collected, 
and  in  no  danger  of  swooning.  I  looked  at 
Mr.  Rochester  ;  I  made  him  look  at  me.  His 
whole  face  was  colorless  rock  ;  his  eye  was 
both  spark  and  fiint.  He  disavowed  nothing ; 
he  seemed  as  if  he  would  defy  all  things. 
Without  speaking,  without  smiling,  without 
seeming  to  recognize  in  me  a  human  being,  he 
only  twined  my  waist  with  his  arm,  and  riveted 
me  to  his  side. 

"  Who  are  you  1"  he  asked  of  the  intruder. 

"  My   name   is  Briggs — a  solicitor  of  

street,  London." 

"  And  you  would  thrust  on  me  a  wife"!" 

"I  would  remind  you  of  your  lady's  ex- 
istence, sir  ;  which  the  law  recognizes,  if  you 
do  not." 

"Favor  me  with  an  account  of  her — with 
her  name,  her  parentage,  her  place  of  abode." 


"  Certainly."  Mr.  Briggs  calmly  took  a  paper 
from  his  pocket,  and  read  out,  in  a  sort  of 
official,  nasal  voice — 

"  I  affirm  and  can  prove  that  on  the  20lh  of 

October,  a.d (a  date  of  fifteen  years  back), 

Edward  Fairfax  Rochester,  of  Thornfield  Hall, 

in  the  county  of ,  and  of  Ferndean  Manor, 

in shire,  England,  was  married  to  my  sis- 
ter. Bertha  Antoinetta  Mason,  daughter  of 
Jonas  Mason,  merchant,  and  of  Antoinetta  his 

wife,  a  Creole — at church,  Spanish  Town, 

Jamaica.  The  record  of  the  marriage  will  be 
found  in  the  register  of  that  church — a  copy  of 
it  is  now  in  my  possession.  Signed,  Richard 
Mason." 

"  That — if  a  genuine  document — may  prove 
I  have  been  married,  but  it  does  not  prove  that 
the  woman  mentioned  therein  as  my  wife  is 
still  living." 

"  She  was  living  three  months  ago,"  returned 
the  lawyer. 

"  How  do  you  knowl" 

"I  have  a  witness  to  the  fact ;  whose  testi- 
mony even  you,  sir,  will  scarcely  controvert." 

"  Produce  him — or  go  to  hell." 

"  I  will  produce  him  first — he  is  on  the  spot ; 
Mr.  Mason,  have  the  goodness  to  step  for- 
ward." 

Mr.  Rochester,  on  hearing  the  name,  set  his 
teeth  ;  he  experienced,  too,  a  sort  of  strong 
convulsive  quiver  ;  near  to  him  as  I  was,  I  felt 
the  spasmodic  movement  of  fury  or  despair  run 
through  his  frame.  The  second  stranger,  who 
had  hitherto  lingered  in  the  background,  now 
drew  near ;  a  pale  face  looked  over  the  solici- 
tor's shoulder — yes,  it  was  Mason  himself.  Mr. 
Rochester  turned  and  glared  at  him.  His  eye, 
as  I  have  often  said,  was  a  black  eye  ;  it  had 
now  a  tawny,  nay,  a  bloody  light  in  its  gloom; 
and  his  face  flushed — olive  cheek  and  hueless 
forehead  received  a  glow,  as  from  spreading, 
ascending  heart-fire ;  and  he  stirred,  lifted  his 
strong  arm — he  could  have  struck  Mason — 
dashed  him  on  the  church  floor — shocked  by 
ruthless  blow  the  breath  from  his  body ;  but 
Mason  shrunk  away,  and  cried  faintly,  "  Good 
God!"  Contempt  fell  cool  on  Mr.  Rochester 
— his  passion  died  as  if  a  blight  had  shriveled 
it  up  ;  he  only  asked,  "  What  have  tjou  to  say  1" 

An  inaudible  reply  escaped  Mason's  white 
lips. 

"  The  devil  is  in  it  if  you  can  not  answer 
distinctly.  I  again  demand,  what  have  you  to 
sayl" 

"  Sir — sir — "  interrupted  the  clergyman,  "  do 
not  forget  you  are  in  a  sacred  place."  Then 
addressing  Mason,  he  inquired  gently,  "  Are 
you  aware,  sir,  whether  or  not  this  gentleman's 
wife  is  still  living  ?" 

"  Courage,"  urged  the  lawyer,  "speak  out." 

"  She  is  now  living  at  Thornfield  Hall,"  said 
Mason,  in  more  articulate  tones;  "I  saw  her 
there  last  April.     I  am  her  brother." 

"At  Thornfield  Hall !"  ejaculated  the  clergy- 
man. "Impossible!  I  am  an  old  resident  in 
this  neighborhood,  sir,  and  I  never  heard  of  a 
Mrs.  Rochester  at  Thornfield  Hall." 

I  saw  a  grim  smile  contort  Mr.  Rochester's 
lipand  he  muttered — 

"  No — by  God  !  1  took  care  that  none  should 
hear  of  it — or  of  her  under  that  name."  He 
mused — for  ten  minutes  he  held  counsel  with 


112 


JANE  EYRE. 


himself;  he  formed  his  resolve,  and  announced 
it— 

"  Enough — all  shall  bolt  out  at  once,  like  the 
bullet  from  the  barrel.  Wood,  close  your  book 
and  take  off  your  surplice  ;  John  Green  (to  the 
clerk),  leave  the  church  :  there  will  be  no  wed- 
ding to-day  :"  the  man  obeyed. 

Mr.  Rochester  continued,  hardily  and  reck- 
lessly :  "  Bigamy  is  an  ugly  word  !  I  meant, 
however,  to  be  a  bigamist ;  but  fate  has  out-ma- 
ncenvered  me,  or  Providence  has  checked  me — 
perhaps  the  last.  I  am  little  better  than  a  devil 
at  this  moment ;  and,  as  my  pastor  there  would 
tell  me,  deserve,  no  doubt,  the  sternest  judg- 
ments of  God,  even  to  the  quenchless  fire  and 
deathless  worm.  Gentlemen,  my  plan  is  broken 
up  !  what  this  lawyer  and  his  client  say  is  true ; 
I  have  been  married  ;  and  the  woman  to  whom 
I  was  married  lives  !  You  say  you  never  heard 
of  a  Mrs.  Rochester  at  the  house  up  yonder. 
Wood  :  but  I  dare  say  you  have  many  a  time 
inclined  your  ear  to  gossip  about  the  mysterious 
lunatic  kept  there  under  watch  and  ward.  Some 
have  whispered  to  you  that  she  is  my  bastard 
half-sister;  some,  my  cast-off  mistress  ;  I  now 
inform  you  that  she  is  my  wife,  whom  I  mar- 
ried fifteen  years  ago — Bertha  Mason  by  name  ; 
sister  of  this  resolute  personage,  who  is  now, 
with  his  quivering  limbs  and  white  cheeks, 
showing  you  what  a  stout  heart  men  may  bear. 
Cheer  up,  Dick !  never  fear  me  !  I'd  almost  as 
soon  strike  a  woman  as  you.  Bertha  Mason  is 
mad  ;  and  she  came  of  a  mad  family — idiots 
and  maniacs  through  three  generations  I  Her 
mother,  tiie  Creole,  was  both  a  mad  woman 
and  a  drunkard  !  as  I  found  out  after  I  had  wed 
the  daughter:  for  they  were  silent  on  family 
secrets  before.  Bertha,  like  a  dutiful  child, 
copied  her  parent  in  both  points.  I  had  a 
charming  partner — pure,  wise,  modest ;  you 
can  fancy  that  I  was  a  happy  man.  I  went 
through  rich  scenes  !  Oh  !  my  experience  has 
been  heavenly,  if  you  only  knew  it !  But  I  owe 
you  no  further  explanation.  Briggs,  Wood, 
Mason — I  invite  you  all  to  come  up  to  the 
house  and  visit  Mrs.  Poole's  patient,  and  my 
wife !  You  shall  see  what  sort  of  a  being  I 
was  cheated  into  espousing,  and  judge  whether 
or  not  I  had  a  right  to  break  the  compact,  and 
seek  sympathy  with  something  at  least  human. 
This  girl,"  he  continued,  looking  at  me,  "  knew 
no  more  than  you,  Wood,  of  the  disgusting 
secret ;  she  thought  all  was  fair  and  legal ;  and 
never  dreamed  she  was  going  to  he  entrapped 
into  a  feigned  union  with  a  defrauded  wretch, 
already  bound  to  a  bad,  mad,  and  embruted 
partner !     Come,  all  of  you,  follow  !" 

Still  holding  me  fast,  he  left  the  church  ;  the 
three  gentlemen  came  after.  At  the  front  door 
of  the  hall  we  found  the  carriage. 

"  Take  it  back  to  the  coach-house,  John," 
said  Mr.  llochester,  coolly  ;  "  it  will  not  be 
wanted  to-day." 

At  our  entrance,  Mrs.  Fairfax,  Adele,  Sophie, 
Leah,  advanced  to  meet  and  greet  us. 

"To  the  right  about — every  soul !"  cried  the 
master  ;  "  away  with  your  congratulations  ! 
Who  wants  them  1  Not  I !  they  are  fifteen 
years  too  late !" 

He  passed  on  and  ascended  the  stairs,  still 
holding  my  hand,  and  still  beckoning  the  gen- 
tlemen to  follow  him  ;   which  they  did.     We 


mounted  the  first  stair-case,  passed  up  the  gal- 
lery, proceeded  to  the  third  story  ;  the  low, 
black  door,  opened  by  Mr.  Rochester's  master- 
key,  admitted  us  to  the  tapestried  room,  with 
its  great  bed,  and  its  pictorial  cabinet. 

"  You  know  this  place,  Mason,"  said  our 
guide  ;  "  she  bit  and  stabbed  you  here." 

He  lifted  the  hangings  from  the  wall,  uncov- 
ering the  second  door ;  this,  too,  he  opened. 
In  a  room  without  a  window,  there  burned  a 
fire,  guarded  by  a  high  and  strong  fender,  and 
a  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling  by  a  chain. 
Grace  Poole  bent  over  the  fire,  apparently  cook- 
ing something  in  a  saucepan.  In  the  deep 
shade,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  a  figure 
ran  backward  and  forward.  What  it  was, 
whether  beast  or  human  being,  one  could  not, 
at  first  sight,  tell:  it  groveled,- seemingly,  on 
all  fours  ;  it  snatched  and  growled  like  some 
strange  wild  animal ;  but  it  was  covered  with 
clothing,  and  a  quantity  of  dark,  grizzled  hair, 
wild  as  a  mane,  hid  its  head  and  face. 

"  Good-morrow,  Mrs.  Poole !"  said  Mr.  Roch- 
ester. "How  are  you !  and  how  is  your  charge 
to-day?" 

"  We're  tolerable,  sir,  I  thank  you,''  replied 
Grace,  lifting  the  boiling  mess  carefully  on  to 
the  hob  ;  "  rather  snappish,  but  not  'rageous." 

A  fierce  cry  seemed  to  give  the  lie  to  her 
favorable  report ;  the  clothed  hyena  rose  up, 
and  stood  tall  on  its  hind  feet. 

"  Ah,  sir,  she  sees  you  !"  exclaimed  Grace ; 
"you'd  better  not  stay." 

"  Only  a  few  moments,  Grace  ;  you  must  al- 
low me  a  few  moments." 

"  Take  care  then,  sir !  for  God's  sake,  take 
care !" 

The  maniac  bellowed  ;  she  parted  her  shaggy 
locks  from  her  visage,  and  gazed  wildly  at  her 
visitors.  I  recognized  well  that  purple  face — 
those  bloated  features.     Mrs.  Poole  advanced. 

"Keep  out  of  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Rochester, 
thrusting  her  aside  ;  "  she  has  no  knilie  now,  I 
suppose  1  and  I'm  on  my  guard." 

"  One  never  knows  what  she  has,  sir ;  she  is 
so  cunning ;  it  is  not  in  mortal  discretion  to 
fathom  her  craft." 

"  We  had  better  leave  her,"  whispered  Mason. 

"Go  to  the  devil!"  was  his  brother-in-law's 
recommendation. 

"Ware!"  cried  Grace.  The  three  gentle- 
men retreated  simultaneously.  Mr.  Rochester 
flung  me  behind  him  ;  the  lunatic  sprung  and 
grappled  his  throat  viciously,  and  laid  her  teeth, 
to  his  cheek ;  they  struggled.  She  was  a  big 
woman,  in  stature  almost  equaling  her  hus- 
band, and  corpulent  besides  :  she  showed  virile 
force  in  the  contest — more  than  once  she  al- 
most throttled  him,  athletic  as  he  was.  He 
could  have  settled  her  with  a  well-planted 
blow  ;  but  he  would  not  strike  :  he  would  only 
wrestle.  At  last  he  mastered  her  arms  :  Grace 
Poole  gave  him  a  cord,  and  he  pinioned  them 
behind  her  :  with  more  rope,  which  was  at 
hand,  he  bound  her  to  a  chair.  The  operation 
was  performed  amid  the  fiercest  yells  and  the 
most  convulsive  plunges.  Mr.  Rochester  then 
turned  to  the  spectators ;  he  looked  at  them 
with  a  smile  both  acrid  and  desolate. 

"  That  is  my  wife,"  said  he.  "  Such  is  (he 
sole  conjugal  embrace  I  am  ever  to  know — 
such  are  the  endearments  which  are  tu  solace 


JANE  EYRE. 


113 


my  leisure  hours  !  And  this  is  wliat  I  wished 
to  have  (laying  his  hand  on  my  shoulder) :  this 
young  girl,  who  stands  so  grave  and  quiet  at 
the  mouth  of  hell,  looking  collectedly  at  the 
gambols  of  a  demon.  I  wanted  her  just  as  a 
change  after  that  fierce  ragout.  Wood  and 
Briggs,  look  at  the  difference  !  Compare  these 
clear  eyes  with  the  red  balls  yonder — this  face 
with  that  mask — this  form  with  that  bulk  ;  then 
judge  me,  priest  of  the  Gospel  and  man  of  the 
law,  and  remember  with  what  judgment  ye 
judge  ye  .shall  be  judged  !  Off  with  you  now. 
I  must  shut  up  my  prrze.'" 

We  all  withdrew.  Mr.  Rochester  stayed  a 
moment  behind  us,  to  give  some  further  order 
to  Grace  Poole.  The  solicitor  addressed  me 
as  we  descended  the  stair. 

"YoD,  madam,"  said  he,  "are  cleared  from 
all  blame  ;  your  uncle  will  be  glad  to  hear  it — 
if,  indeed,  he  should  be  still  living — when  Mr. 
Mason  returns  to  Madeira." 

"My  uncle  !  What  of  himT  Do  you  know 
himr* 

"  Mr.  Mason  does  :  Mr.  Eyre  has  been  the 
Funchal  correspondent  of  his  house  for  some 
years.  When  your  uncle  received  your  letter 
intimating  the  contemplated  union  between 
yourself  and  Mr.  Rochester,  Mr.  Mason,  who 
was  staying  at  Madeira  to  recruit  his  health,  on 
his  way  back  to  Jamaica,  happened  to  be  with 
him.  Mr.  Eyre  mentioned  the  intelligence ; 
for  he  knew  tjiat  my  client  here  was  acquainted 
with  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Rochester. 
Mr.  Mason,  astonished  and  distressed,  as  you 
may  suppose,  revealed  the  real  state  of  matters. 
Your  uncle,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  now  on  a 
sick-bed,  frora  which,  considering  the  nature 
of  his  disease — decline — and  the  stage  it  has 
reached,  it  is  unlikely  he  will  ever  rise.  He 
could  not  then  hasten  to  England  himself,  to 
extricate  you  frora«the  snare  into  which  you 
had  fallen,  but  he  implored  Mr.  Mason  to  lose 
no  time  in  taking  steps  to  prevent  the  false 
marriage.  He  referred  him  to  me  for  assist- 
ance. I  used  all  dispatch,  and  am  thankful 
I  was  not  too  late  :  as  you  doubtless  must  be 
also.  Were  I  not  morally  certain  that  your 
uncle  will  be  dead  ere  you  reach  Madeira, 
I  would  advise  you  to  accompany  Mr.  Mason 
back  :  but  as  it  is,  I  think  you  had  better  remain 
in  England  till  you  can  hear  further,  either  from 
or  of  Mr.  Eyre.  Have  we  any  thing  else  to 
stay  fori"  he  inquired  of  Mr.  Mason. 

"  No,  no — let  us  be  gone,"  was  the  anxious 
reply  ;  and  without  waiting  to  take  leave  of  Mr. 
Rochester,  they  made  their  exit  at  the  liall 
door.  The  clergyman  stayed  to  exchange  a 
few  sentences,  either  of  admonition  or  reproof, 
with  his  haughty  parishioner  ;  this  duty 'done, 
he,  too,  departed. 

I  heard  him  go  as  I  stood  at  the  half-open 
door  of  my  own  room,  to  which  I  had  now 
withdrawn.  The  house  cleared,  I  shut  myself 
in,  fastened  the  bolt,  that  none  might  intrude, 
and  proceeded — not  to  weep,  not  to  mourn  ;  I 
was  yet  too  calm  for  that — but  mechanically  to 
take  off  the  wedding  dress,  and  replace  it  by  the 
stuff  gown  I  had  worn  yesterday,  as  I  thought, 
for  thq  last  time.  I  then  sat  down  ;  I  felt  weak 
and  tired.  I  leaned  my  arms  on  a  table,  and 
my  head  dropped  on  them.  And  now  I  thought ; 
till  now  I  had  only  heard,  seen,  moved— foUow- 
H 


ed  up  and  down  where  I  was  led  or  dragged — 
watched  event,  rush  on  event,  disclosure  open 
beyond  disclosure  ;  but  now  I  thought. 

The  morning  had  been  a  quiet  morning 
enough — all  except  the  brief  scene  with  the 
lunatic  ;  the  transaction  in  the  church  had  not 
been  noisy  ;  there  was  no  explosion  of  passion, 
no  loud  altercation,  no  dispute,  no  defiance  or 
challenge,  no  tcafl-s,  no  sobs  ;  a  few  words  had 
been  spoken,  a  calmly-pronounced  objection  to 
the  marriage  made  ;  some  stern,  short  ques- 
tions put  by  Mr.  Rochester  ;  answers,  explana- 
tions given,  evidence  adduced;  an  open  admis- 
sion of  the  truth  had  been  uttered  by  my  master  ; 
then  the  living  proof  had  been  seen  ;  the  in- 
truders were  gone,  and  all  was  over. 

I  was  in  my  own  room  as  usual — ^just  myself, 
without  obvious  change  ;  nothing  had  smitten 
me,  or  scathed  me,  or  maimed  me.  And  yet, 
where  was  the  Jane  Eyre  of  yesterday  1  where 
was  her  life  1  w^here  were  her  prospects  1 

Jane  Eyre,  who  had  been  an  ardent  expect- 
ant woman — almost  a  bride — was  a  cold,  sol- 
itary girl  again  ;  her  life  was  pale  ;  her  pros- 
pects were  desolate.  A  Christmas  frost  had 
come  at  midsummer  ;  a  white  December  storm 
had  whirled  over  June ;  ice  glazed  the  ripe 
apples,  drifts  crushed  the  blowing  roses  ;  on 
hay-field  and  corn-field  lay  a  frozen  shroud : 
lanes  which  last  night  blushed  full  of  flowers, 
to-day  were  pathless  with  untrodden  snow  ; 
and  the  woods  which  twelve  hours  since  waved 
leafy  and  fragrant  as  groves  between  the  tropics, 
now  spread,  waste,  wild,  and  white  as  pine- 
forests  in  wintry  Norway.  My  hopes  were  all 
dead — struck  with  a  subtile  doom,  such  as,  in 
one  night,  fell  on  all  the  first-born  in  the  land 
of  Egypt.  I  looked  on  my  cherished  wishes, 
yesterday  so  blooming  and  glowing  ;  they  lay 
stark,  chill,  livid  corpses  that  could  never  re- 
vive. I  looked  at  my  love  ;  that  feeling  which 
was  my  master's — which  he  had  created  ;  it 
shivered  in  my  heart,  like  a  suffering  child  in  a 
cold  cradle  ;  sickness  and  anguish  had  seized 
it ;  it  could  not  seek  Mr.  Rochester's  arms — it 
could  not  derive  warmth  from  his  breast.  Oh, 
never  more  could  it  turn  to  him ;  for  faith  was 
blighted — confidence  destroyed  !  Mr.  Roches- 
ter was  not  to  me  what  he  had  been  ;  for  he 
was  not  what  I  had  thought  him.  I  would  not 
ascribe  vice  to  him;  I  would  not  say  he  had 
betrayed  me  :  but  the  attribute  of  stainless 
truth  was  gone  from  his  idea ;  and  from  his 
presence  I  must  go ;  that  I  perceived  well. 
Wjjgjj — how — whither,  I  could  not  yet  discern  ; 
but  he  himself,  I  doubted  not,  would  hurry  me 
from  Thornficld.  Real  affection,  it  seemed,  he 
could  not  have  for  me ;  it  had  been  only  fitful 
passion  ;  that  was  balked ;  he  would  want  me 
no  more.  I  should  fear  even  to  cross  his  path 
now :  my  view  must  be  hateful  to  him.  Oh, 
how  blind  had  been  my  eyes  !  How  weak  my 
conduct ! 

My  eyes  were  covered  and  closed ;  eddying 
darkness  seemed  to  swim  round  me,  and  re- 
flection came  in  as  black  and  confu.sed  a  flow. 
Self-abandoned,  relaxed  and  effortless,  I  seem- 
ed to  have  laid  me  down  in  the  dried-up  bed  of 
a  great  river ;  I  heard  a  flood  loosened  in  re- 
mote mountains,  I  felt  the  torrent  come ;  to 
rise  I  had  no  will,  to  flee  I  had  no.  strength.  I 
lay  faint,  longing  to  be  dead.    One  idea  only 


TTf 


JANE,  irrRE. 


still  throbbed  lifelike  within  me — a  remem- 
brance of  God  :  it  begot  an  unuttered  prayer  : 
these  words  went  wandering  up  and  down  in 
my  rayless  mind,  as  something  that  should  be 
whispered  :  but  no  energy  was  found  to  ex- 
press them  : 

"  Be  not  far  from  me,  for  trouble  is  near ; 
there  is  none  to  help." 

It  was  near  :  and  as  I  had  lifted  no  petition 
to  Heaven  to  avert  it — as  I  had  neither  joined 
my  hands,  nor  bent  my  knees,  nor  moved  my 
lips — it  came  ;  in  full,  heavy  swing,  the  torrent 
poured  over  me.  The  whole  consciousness  of 
my  life  lorn,  my  love  lost,  my  hope  quenched, 
my  faith  death-struck,  swayed  full  and  liiighty 
above  me  in  one  sullen  mass.  That  bitter 
hour  can  not  be  described  ;  in  truth,  "  the  wa- 
ters came  into  my  soul ;  I  sunk  in  deep  mire  : 
I  felt  no  standing ;  I  came  into  deep  waters ; 
the  floods  overflowed  me." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Some  time  in  the  afternoon  I  raised  my  head, 
and  looking  round  and  seeing  the  westering 
sun  gilding  the  sign  of  its  decline  on  the  wall, 
I  asked,  "  What  am  I  to  do  I'i 

But  the  answer  my  mind  gave — "Leave 
Thornfield  at  once" — was  so  prompt,  so  dread, 
that  I  stopped  my  ears  ;  I  said,  I  could  not 
bear  such  words  now.  '=That  I  am  not  Ed- 
ward Rochester's  bride  is  the  least  part  of  my 
woe,"  I  alleged  ;  "  that  I  have  wakened  out  of 
most  glorious  dreams,  and  found  them  all  void 
and  vain,  is  a  horror  I  could  bear  and  master ; 
but  that  I  must  leave  him  decidedly,  instantly, 
entirely,  is  intolerable.     I  can  not  do  it." 

But,  then,  a  force  within  me  averred  that  I 
could  do  it,  and  foretold  that  I  should  do  it.  I 
wrestled  with  my  own  resolution  ;  I  wanted  to 
be  weak  that  I  might  avoid  the  awful  passage 
of  further  suffering  I  saw  laid  out  for  me  ;  and 
conscience,  turned  tyrant,  held  passion  by  the 
throat,  told  her,  tauntingly,  she  had  yet  but 
dipped  her  dainty  foot  in  the  slough,  and  swore 
that  with  that  arm  of  iron  he  would  thrust 
her  down  to  unsounded  depths  of  agony. 

"  Let  me  be  torn  away,  then  !"  I  cried.  "  Let 
another  help  me  !" 

"No;  you  shall  tear  yourself  away;  none 
shall  help  you ;  you  shall  yourself  pluck  out 
your  right  eye :  yourself  cut  off  your  right 
hand  :  your  heart  shall  be  the  victim ;  and  you 
the  priest,  to  transfix  it." 

I  rose  up  suddenly,  terror-stricken  at  the  sol- 
itude which  so  ruthless  a  judge  haunted — at 
the  silence  which  so  awful  a  voice  filled.  My 
head  swam  as  I  stood  erect ;  I  perceived  that 
I  was  sickening  from  excitement  and  inanition  ; 
neither  meat  nor  drink  had  passed  my  lips  that 
day,  for  I  had  taken  no  breakfast.  And,  with 
a  strange  pang,  I  now  reflected,  that,  long  as  I 
had  been  shut  up  here,  no  message  had  been 
sent  to  ask  how  I  was,  or  to  invite  me  to  come 
down  :  not  even  little  Adole  had  tapped  at  the 
door,  nor  even  Mrs.  Fairfax  had  sought  me. 
"  Friends  always  forget  those  whom  fortune 
forsakes,"  I  murmured,  as  I  undrew  the  bolt 
and  passed  out.  I  stumbled  over  an  obstacle  : 
my  head  was  suii  iiizzy,  my  sight  was  dim  and 
my  limbs  were  feeble.     I  could  not  soon  re- 


cover myself ;  I  fell,  but  not  on  to  the  ground ; 
an  outstretched  arm  caught  me  ;  I  looked  up — I 
was  supported  by  Mr.  Rochester,  who  sat  in  a 
chair  across  my  chamber  threshold. 

"  You  come  out  at  last,"  he  said.  "  Well,  I 
have  been  waiting  for  you  long,  and  listening  ; 
yet  not  one  movement  have  I  heard,  nor  one 
sob  :  five  minutes' more  of  that  deathlike  hush, 
and  I  should  have  forced  the  lock  like  a  burg- 
lar. So,  you  shun  me  1 — you  shut  yourself  up 
and  grieve  alone?  I  would  rather  you  had 
co;ne  and  upbraided  me  with  vehemence.  You 
are  passionate ;  I  expected  a  scene  of  some 
kind.  I  was  prepared  for  the  hot  rain  of  tears  ; 
only  I  wanted  them  to  be  shed  on  my  breast : 
now  a  senseless  floor  has  received  them,  or 
your  drenched  handkerchief.  But  I  err  ;  you 
have  not  wept  at  all !  I  see  a  white  cheek  and 
a  faded  eye,  but  no  trace  of  tears.  I  suppose, 
then,  your  heart  has  been  weeping  blood  1 

"Well,  Jane:  not  a  word  of  reproach  1 
Nothing  bitter — nothing  poignant  1  Nothing 
to  cut  a  feeling  or  sting  a  passion  "?  You  sit 
quietly  where  I  have  placed  you,  and  regard  me 
with  a  weary,  passive  look. 

"  Jane,  I  never  meant  to  wound  you  thus. 
If  the  man  who  liad  but  one  little  ewe  lamb 
that  was  dear  to  him  as  a  daughter,  that  ate  of 
his  bread  and  drank  of  his  cup,  and  lay  in  his 
bosom,  had  by  some  mistake  slaughtered  it  at 
the  shambles,  he  would  not  have  rued  his 
bloody  blunder  more  than  I  now  rue  mine 
Will  you  ever  forgive  mel" 

Reader  ! — I  forgave  him  at  the  moment,  and 
on  the  spot.  There  was  such  deep  remorse  in 
his  eye,  such  true  pity  in.  his  tone,  such  manly 
energy  in  his  manner  ;  and,  besides,  there  was 
such  unchanged  love  in  his  whole  look  and 
mien — I  forgave  him  all :  yet  not  in  words,  not 
outwardly ;  only  at  my  heart's  core. 

"You  know  I  am  a  scoundrel,  Jane"!"  ere 
long  he  inquired  wistfully — wondering,  I  sup- 
pose, at  my.  continued  silence  and  tameness  ; 
the  result  rather  of  weakness  than  of  will. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  tell  me  so  roundly  and  sharply — don't 
.spare  me." 

"  I  can  not :  I  am  tired  and  sick.  I  want 
some  water."  He  heaved  a  sort  of  shuddering 
sigh,  and,  taking  me  in  his  arms,  carried  me 
down  stairs.  At  first  I  did  not  know  to  what 
room  he  had  borne  me  ;  all  was  cloudy  to  my 
glazed  sight ;  presently  I  felt  the  reviving 
warmth  of  a  fire  ;  for,  summer  as  it  was,  I  had 
become  icy  cold  in  my  chamber.  He  put  wine 
to  my  lips ;  I  tasted  it  and  revived  ;  then  I  ate 
something  he  offered  me,  and  was  soon  myself 
I  was  in  the  library — sitting  in  his  chair — he 
was  quite  near.  "  If  I  could  go  out  of  life  now, 
without  too  sharp  a  pang,  it  would  be  well  foi 
me,"  I  thought ;  "  then  I  should  not  have  tt 
make  the  effort  of  cracking  my  heart-strings  in 
rending  them  from  among  Mr.  Rochester's.  1 
must  leave  him,  it  appears.  I  do  not  want  to 
leave  him — I  can  not  leave  him." 

"  How  are  you  now,  Jane?" 

"  Much  better,  sir  ;  I  shall  be  well  soon." 

"  Taste  the  wine  again,  Jane." 

I  obeyed  him  ;  then  he  put  the  glass  on  the 
table,  stood  before  me,  and  looked  at  me  atten- 
tively. Suddenly  he  turned  away,  wiih  an  in- 
articulate exclamation,  full  ol  passionate  emo- 


JANE  EYRE. 


115 


tion  of  some  kind  ;  he  walked  fast  through  the 
room  and  came  back  ;  he  stooped  toward  me  as 
if  to  kiss  me  ;  but  I  remembered  caresses  were 
now  forbidden.  I  turned  my  face  away,  and 
put  his  aside. 

"  What ! — How  is  this?  "  he  exclaimed  hast- 
ily. "  Oh,  I  know !  you  won't  kiss  the  hus- 
band of  Bertha  Mason '  You  consider  my 
arms  filled,  and  my  embraces  appropriated  V 
>■  "  At  any  rate,  there  is  neither  room  nor  claim 
for  me,  sir." 

"  Why,  Jane  ?  I  will  spare  you  the  trouble 
of  much  talking ;  I  will  answer  for  you— be- 
cause I  have  a  wife  already,  you  would  reply. 
I  guess  rightly  1" 

"Yes." 

"  If  you  think  so,  you  must  have  a  strange 
opinion  of  me  ;  you  must  regard  me  as  a  plot- 
ting profligate — a  base  and  low  rake  who  has 
been  stimulating  disinterested  love  in  order  to 
draw  you  into  a  snare  deliberately  laid,  and 
strip  you  of  honor,  and  rob  you  of  self-respect. 
What  do  you  say  to  that?  I  see  you  can  say 
nothing;  in  the  first  place,  you  are  faint,  still, 
and  have  enough  to  do  to  draw  your  breath  ;  in 
the  second  place,  you  can  not  yet  accustom  your- 
self to  accuse  and  revile  me  ;  and,  besides,  the 
flood-gates  of  tears  are  opened,  and  they  would 
rush  out  if  you  spoke  much  ;  and  you  have  no 
desire  to  expostulate,  to  upbraid,  to  make  a 
'  scene ;  yon  are  thinking  how  to  act — lalking, 
you  consider,  is  of  no  use.  I  know  you — I  am 
on  mygu,ard." 

"  Sir,  I  do  not  wish  to  act  against  you,"  I 
said  ;  and  my  unsteady  voice  warned  me  to 
curtail  my  sentence. 

"Not  in  your  sense  of  the  word — but  ia  mine 
you  are  scheming  to  destroy  me.  You  have  as 
good  as  said  that  I  am  a  married  man — as  a 
married  man  you  will  shnn  me,'keep  out  of  my 
way ;  just  now  you  have  refused  to  kiss  me. 
You  intend  to  make  yourself  a  complete  stran- 
ger to  me  ;  to  live  under  this  roof  only  as  Ade- 
le's  governess  ;  if  ever  I  say  a  friendly  word  to 
you  —  if  ever  a  friendly  feeling  inclines  you 
again  to  me,  you  will  say — 'That  man  had 
nearly  made  me  his  mistress ;  I  must  be  ice 
and  rock  to  him,'  and  ice  and  rock  you  will  ac- 
cordingly become." 

I  cleared  and  steadied  my  voice  to  reply, 
"  All  is  changed  about  me,  sir ;  I  must  change 
too — there  is  no  doubt  of  that ;  and,  to  avoid 
fluctuations  of  feeling,  and  continual  combats 
with  recollections  and  associations,  there  is 
only  one  way — Adele  must  have  a  new  govern- 
ess, sir." 

"  Oh,  Adele  will  go  to  school — I  have  settled 
that  already  ;  nor  do  I  mean  to  torment  you 
with  the  hideous  associations  and  recollections 
of  Thornfield  Hall — this  accursed  place — this 
tentofAchan — this  insolent  vault  offering  the 
ghaslliness  of  living  deathto  the  light  of  theopen 
sky— this  narrovy  stone  hell,  with  its  one  real 
fiend,  worse  than  a  legion  of  such  as  we  imag- 
ine. Jane,  you  shall  not  stay  here,  nor  will  I. 
I  was  wrong  ever  to  bring  you  to  Thornfield 
Hall,  ktiowing  as  I  did  how  it  was  haunted.  I 
charged  them  to  conceal  from  you,  befi)re  I  ever 
saw  you,  all  knowledge  of  the  curse  of  the 
place  ;  merely  because  I  feared  Adele  never 
would  have  a  governess  to  stay  if  she  knew 
with  what,  inmate  she  was   housed,  and  my 


plans  would  not  permit  me  to  remove  the  ma- 
niac elsewhere — though  I  possess  an  old  house, 
Ferndean  Manor,  even  more  retired  and  hidden 
than  this,  where  I  could  have  lodged  her  safely 
enough,  had  not  a  scruple  about  the  unhealthi- 
ness  of  the  situation,  in  the  heart  of  a  wood, 
made  my  conscience  recoil  from  the  arrange- 
ment. Probably  those  damp  walls  would  soon 
have  eased  me  of  her  charge  ;  but  to  each  vil- 
lain his  own  vice  ;  and  mine  is  not  a  tendency  to 
indirect  assassination,  even  of  what  I  most  hate.  ' 

"  Concealing  the  madwoman's  neighborhood  ' 
from  you,  however,  was  something  like  cover-  i 
ing  a  child  with  a  cloak,  and  laying  it  down ; 
near  a   upas-tree  ;   that   demon's   vicinage   is  ' 
poisoned,   and  always  was.      But  I'll  shut  up 
Thornfield  Hall ;  I'll  nail  up  the  front  door,  and 
board  the  lower-windows  ;  I'll  give  Mrs.  Poole 
two  hundred  a-year  to  live  here  with  my  wife, 
as  you  term  that  fearful  hag ;  Grace  will  do 
much  for  money,  and  she  shall  have  her  son, 
the  keeper  at  Grimsby  Retreat,  to   bear  her 
company  and  be  at  hand  to  give  her  aid  in  the 
paroxysms,  when  my  wife  is  prompted  by  her 
familiar  to  burn  people  in  their  beds  at  night, 
to  stab  them,  to  bite  their  flesh  from  their  bones, 
and  so  on — " 

"  Sir,"  I  interrupted  him,  "  you  are  inexera- 
ble  fur  that  unfortunate  lady  ;  you  speak  of  her 
with  hate — with  vindictive  antipathy.  It  is 
cruel — she  can  not  help  being  mad." 

"Jane,  my  little  darling  (so  I  will  call  you, 
for  so  you  are),  you  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about ;  you  misjudge  me  again  ;  it  is  not 
because  she  is  mad  I  hate  her.  If  you  were 
mad  do  you  think  I  should  hate  youl" 

"I  do,  indeed,  sir." 

"  Then  you  are  mistaken,  and  you  know 
nothing  about  me,  and  nothing  about  the  sort 
of  love  of  which  I  am  capable.  Every  atom  of 
your  flesh  is  as  dear  to  me  as  my  own  ;  in  pain 
and  sickness  it  would  still  be  dear.  Your  mind 
is  my  treasure,  and  if  it  were  broken  it  would 
be  my  treasure  still ;  if  you  raved,  my  arras 
should  confine  you,  and  not  a  straight  waist- 
coat. Your  grasp,  even  in  fury,  would  have  a 
charm  for  me  ;  if  you  flew  at  me  as  wildly  as 
that  woman  did  this  morning,  I  should  receive 
you  in  an  embrace,  at  least  as  fond  as  it  would 
be  restrictive ;  I  should  not  shrink  from  yoa 
with  disgust  as  I  did  from  her.  In  your  quiet 
moments  you  should  have  no  watcher  and  no 
nurse  but  me  ;  and  I  could  hang  over  you  with 
untiring  tenderness,  though  you  gave  me  no 
smile  in  return ;  and  never  weary  of  gazing 
into  your  eyes,  though  they  had  no  longer  a  ray 
of  recognition  for  me.  But  why  do  I  follow 
that  train  of  ideas  1  I  was  talking  of  remov- 
ing you  from  Thornfield.  All,  you  know,  is 
prepared  for  prompt  departure  ;  to-morrow  you  , 
shall  go.  I  only  ask  you  to  endure  one  more 
night  under  this  roof,  Jane  ;  and  then,  farewell 
to  Its  miseries  and  terrors  forever !  I  have  a 
place  to  repair  to  which  will  be  a  secure  sanc- 
tuary from  hateful  reminiscences,  from  un- 
welcome intrusion — even  from  falsehood  and 
slander." 

"And  take  Adele  with  you,  sir,"  I  inter- 
rupted ;  "  she  will  be  a  companion  for  you." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Jane?  I  told  you  I 
would  send  Adele  to  school.  And  what  do 
I  want  with'  a  chdd  for  a  companion — and  not 


116 


JANE  EYRE. 


my  own  child — a  French  dancer's  bastard.  ! 
Why  do  you  importune  me  about  her  1  I  say,  | 
why  do  you  assign  Adele  to  me  for  a  com- 1 
panion  V 

•'  You  spoke  of  a  retirement,  sir ;  and 
retirement  and  solitude  are  dull — too  dull  for 
you." 

"Solitude!  solitude!''  he  reiterated,  with 
irritation.  "  I  see  I  must  come  to  an  explana- 
tion. I  don't  know  what  sphinx-like  expres- 
sion is  forming  in  your  countenance.  You 
are  to  share  my  solitude.  Do  you  under- 
stand 1" 

I  shook  my  head.  It  required  a  degree  of 
courage,  excited  as  he  was  becoming,  even  to 
risk  that  mute  sign  of  dissent.  He  had  been 
walking  fast  about  the  room,  and  he  stopped, 
as  if  suddenly  rooted  to  one  spot.  He  looked 
at  me  long  and  hard.  I  turned  my  eyes 
from  him,  fixed  them  on  the  fire,  and  tried 
to  assume  and  maintain  a  quiet,  collected  as- 
pect. 

"  Now  for  the  hitch  in  Jane's  character,"  he 
said,  at  last,  speaking  more  calmly  than,  from 
his  look,  I  had  expected  him  to  speak.  "  The 
reel  of  silk  has  run  smoothly  enough  so  far ; 
but  I  always  knew  there  would  come  a  knot 
and  a  puzzle — here  it  is.  Now  for  vexation, 
and  exasperation,  and  endless  trouble !  By 
God  !  I  long  to  exert  a  fraction  of  Samson's 
strength,  and  break  the  entanglement  like 
tow  !" 

He  vecommenccd  his  walk,  but  soon  again 
stopped,  and  tliis  time  just  before  me. 

"  Jane  !  will  you  hear  reason  1  (he  stooped 
and  approached  his  lips  to  my  ear)  because, 
if  you  won't,  I'll  try  violence."  His  voice  was 
hoarse ;  his  look  that  of  a  man  who  is  just 
about  to  burst  an  insufferable  bond  and  plunge 
headlong  into  wild  license.  I  saw  that  in 
another  moment,  and  with  one  impetus  of 
frenzy  more,  I  should  bo  able  to  do  nothing 
with  him.  The  present — the  passing  second 
ef  time — was  all  I  had  in  v/hich  to  control  and 
restrain  him.  A  movement  of  repulsion,  flight, 
fear,  would  have  sealed  my  doom — and  his. 
But  I  was  not  afraid — not  in  the  least.  I 
felt  an  inward  power — a  sense  of  influence — 
which  supported  me.  The  crisis  was  perilous,' 
but  not  without  its  charm — such  as  the  Indian, 
perhapj,  feels,  when  he  slips  over  the  rapid  in 
his  canoe.  I  took  hold  of  his  clenched  hand, 
loosened  the  contorted  fingers,  and  said  to  him, 
soothingly  : 

"  Sit  down ;  I'll  talk  to  you  as  long  as  you 
like,  and  hear  all  you  have  to  say,  whether 
reasonable  or  unreasonable." 

He  sat  down  ;  but  he  did  not  get  leave  to 
speak  directly.  I  had  been  struggling  with 
tears  for  some  time.  1  had  taken  great  pains 
to  repress  them,  because  I  knew  he  would  not 
like  to  see  me  weep.  Now,  however,  I  con- 
sidered it  well  to  let  them  flow  as  freely  and 
as  long  as  they  liked.  If  the  flood  annoyed 
him,  so  much  the  better.  So  I  gave  way,  and 
cried  heartily.  • 

Soon  I  heard  him  earnestly  entreating  me  to 
be  composed.  I  said  I  could  not  while  he  was 
in  such  a  passion. 

"  But  1  am  not  angry,  Jane ;  I  only  love 
you  too  well.  And  you  luid  steeled  your  lit- 
tle pale  face  with  such  a  resolute,  frozen  look, 


I  could  not  endure  it.     Hush,  now,  and  wipe 
your  eyes." 

His  softened  voice  announced  that  he  was 
subdued  ;  so  I,  in  my  turn,  became  calm.  Now 
he  made  an  effort  to  rest  his  head  on  my  shoul- 
der ;  but  I  would  not  permit  it  :  then  he  would 
draw  rae  to  him  ;  no. 

"  Jane  !  Jane  !"  he  said,  in  such  an  accent 
of  bitter  sadness,  it  thrilled  along  every  nerve 
I  had,  "  you  don't  love  me,  then  1  It  was 
only  my  station,  and  the  rank  of  my  wife, 
that  you  valued  1  Now  that  you  think  me 
disquahfied  to  become  your  husband,  you  re- 
coil from  my  touch  as  if  I  were  some  toad  or 
ape." 

These  words  cut  me ;  yet  what  could  I  do 
or  say  1  I  ought,  probably,  to  have  done  or 
said  nothing ;  but  I  was  so  tortured  by  a  sense 
of  remorse  at  thus  hurting  his  feelings,  I  could 
not  control  the  wish  to  drop  balm  where  I  had 
wounded. 

"  I  do  love  you,"  I  said,  "  more  than  ever ; 
but  I  must  not  show  or  indulge  the  feeling ;  and 
this  is  the  last  time  I  must  express  it." 

"  The  last  time,  Jane  1  What !  do  you 
think  you  can  live  with  me,  and  see  me  daily, 
and  yet,  if  you  still  love  me,  be  always  cold  and 
distant  1" 

"  No,  sir,  that  I  am  certain  I  could  not ;  and 
therefore  I  see  there  is  but  one  way — but  you 
will  be  furious  if  I  mention  it." 

"  Oh,  mention  it !  if  I  storm,  you  have  the 
art  of  weeping." 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  I  must  leave  you." 

"  For  how  long,  Jane  1  For  a  few  minutes, 
while  you  smooth  your  hair,  which  is  some- 
what disheveled,  and  bathe  your  face,  which 
looks  feverish  1" 

"  I  must  leave  Adele  and  Thornfield  ;  I  must 
part  with  you  for  my  whole  life  ;  I  must  begin 
a  new  existence  among  strange  faces  and 
strange  scenes." 

"  01  course ;  I  told  you  you  should.  I  pass 
over  the  madness  about  parting  from  rae. 
You  mean  you  must  become  a  part  of  me. 
As  to  the  new  existence,  it  is  all  right ;  you 
shall  yet  be  my  wife — I  ani  noi  married.  'You 
shall  be  Mrs.  Rochester,  both  virtually  and 
nominally.  I  shall  keep  only  to  yon  so  long 
as  you  and  1  live.  You  shall  go  to  a  place  I 
have  in  the  south  of  France — a  white-walled 
villa  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean. 
There  you  shall  live  a  happy,  and  guarded,  and 
most  innocent  life.  Never  fear  that  I  wish  to 
lure  you  into  error — to  make  you  my  mistress. 
Why  do  you  shake  your  head  1  Jane,  you  must 
be  reasonable,  or,  in  truth,  I  shall  again  become 
frantic." 

His  voice  and  hand  quivered  ;  his  large  nos- 
trils dilated ;  his  eye  blazed ;  still,  1  dared  to 
speak  : 

"Sir,  your  wife  is  living  ;  that  is  a  fact  ac- 
knowledged this  morning  by  yourself:  if  1 
lived  with  you  as  you  desire,  f  should  then  be 
your  mistress ;  to  say  otherwise  is  sophistical — 
is  false." 

"Jane,  I  am  not  a  gentle-tempered  man — you 
forget  that ;  I  am  not  long-enduring  ;  I  am  not 
coo!  and  dispassionate.  Out  of  pity  to  rae  and 
yourself,  put  your  finger  on  my  pulse,  feel  how 
it  throbs,  and — beware  !" 

He  bared  his  wrist,  and  offered  it  to  me. 


JAJNE  EYRE. 


117 


The  blood  was  forsaking  his  cheek  and  lips ; 
.hey  were  growing  livid  ;  I  was  distressed  on 
all  hands.  To  agitate  him  thus  deeply,  by  a 
resistance  he  so  abhorred,  was  cruel ;  to  yield, 
■was  out  of  the  question.  I  did  what  human 
beings  do  instinctively  when  they  are  driven  to 
utter  extremity — looked  for  aid  to  one  higher 
than  man  ;  the  words  "  God  help  me  !"  burst 
involuntarily  from  my  lips. 

*♦!  am  a  fool!"  cried  Mr.  Rochester,  sud- 
denly. "I  keep  telling  her  I  am  not  married, 
and  do  not  explain  to  her  why.  I  forget  she 
knows  nothing  of  the  character 'of  that  wom- 
an, or  of  the  circumstances  attending  my  in- 
fernal union  with  her.  Oh,  I  am  certain  Jane 
will  agree  with  me  in  opinion,  when  she 
knows  all  that  I  know !  Just  put  your  hand 
in  mine,  Janet — that  I  may  have  the  evidence 
of  touch,  as  well  as  sight,  to  prove  you  are 
near  me — and  I  will,  in  a  few  words,  show 
you  the  real  state  of  the  case.  Can  you  listen 
tomel" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  for  hours,  if  you  will."  , 

"  I  ask  only  minutes.  Jane,  did  you  ever 
hear,  or  know,  that  I  was  not  the  eldest  son 
of  my  house — that  I  had  once  a  brother  older 
than  I  ?" 

"I  remember  Mrs.  Fairfax  told  me  so 
once." 

"And  did  you  ever  hear  that  my  father  was 
an  avaricious,  grasping  man  1" 

"I  have  understood  something  to  that  ef- 
fect." 

"  Well,  Jane,  being  so,  it  was  his  resolution 
to  keep  the  property  together.  He  could  not 
bear  the  idea  of  dividing  his  estate  and  leaving 
me  a  fair  portion  ;  all,  he  resolved,  should  go 
to  my  brother,  Russell.  Yet,  as  little  could  he 
endure  that  a  son  of  his  should  be  a  poor  man. 
I  must  be  provided  for  by  a  wealthy  marriage. 
He  sought  me  a  partner  betimes.  Mr.  Mason; 
a  West  India  planter  and  merchant,  was  his 
old  acquaintance.  He  was  certain  bis  posses- 
sions were  real  and  vast ;  he  made  inquiries. 
Mr.  Mason,  he  found,  had  a  son  and  daughter  ; 
and  he  learned  from  him  that  he  could  and 
would  give  the  latter  a  fortune  of  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds  ;  that  sufficed.  When  I  left  col- 
lege, I  was  sent  oijit  to  Jamaica,  to  espouse  a 
bride  already  courted  for  me.  My  father  said 
nothing  abput  her  money,  but  he  told  me  Miss 
Mason  was  the  boast  of  Spanish  Town  for  her 
beauty,  and  this  was  no  lie.  I  found  her  a  fine 
woman,  in  the  style  of  Blanche  Ingram,  tall, 
dark,  and  majestic.  Her  fathily  wished  to  se- 
cure me,  because  I  was  of  a  good  race  ;  and  so 
did  she.  They  showed  her  to  me  in  parties, 
splendidly  dressed.  I  seldom  saw  her  alone, 
and  had  veiy  little  private  conversation  with 
her.  She  flattered  me,  and  lavishly  displayed 
for  my  pleasure  her  charms  and  accomplish- 
ments. All  the  men  in  her  circle  seemed  to 
admire  her  and  envy  me.  I  was  dazzled — 
stimulated ;  my  senses  were  excited ;  and 
being  ignorant,  raw,  and  inexperienced,  I 
thought  I  loved  her.  There  is  no  folly  so  be- 
sotted, that  the  idiotic  rivalries  of  society,  the 
prurience,  the  rashness,  the  blindness  of  youth 
will  not  hurry  a  man  to  its  commission.  Her 
relatives  encouraged  mp ;  competitors  piqued 
me ;  she  allured  me  ;  a  marriage  was  achieved 
almost  before  I  knew  where  I  was.     Oh,  I  hqve 


no  respect  for  myself  when  I  think  of  that  act  I 
An  agony  of  inward  contempt  masters  me.  I 
never  loved,  I  never  esteemed,  I  did  not  even 
know  her.  I  was  not  sure  of  the  existence  of 
one  virtue  in  her  nature.  I  had  marked  neither 
modesty,  nor  benevolence,  nor  candor,  nor  re- 
finement in  her  mind  or  manners  ;  and  I  mar- 
ried her — gross,  groveling,  mole-eyed  block- 
head that  I  was!  With  less  sin  I  might 
have — but  let  me  remember  to  whom  I  am 
speaking. 

"  My  bride's  mother  I  had  never  seen ;  I  un- 
derstood she  was  dead.  The  honey-moon  over, 
I  learned  my  mistake  ;  she  was  only  mad  ;  and 
shut  up  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  There  was  a 
younger  brother,  too ;  a  complete  dumb  idiot. 
The  elder  one,  whom  you  have  seen  (and  whom 
I  can  not  hate,  while  I  abhor  all  his  kindred, 
because  he  has  some  grains  of  affection  in  his 
feeble  mind,  shown  in  the  continued  interest 
he  takes  in  his  wretched  sister,  and  also  in  a 
doglike  attachment  he  once  bore  me),  will 
probably  be  in  the  same  state  one  day.  My  fa- 
ther, and  my  brother  Russell  knew  all  this ; 
but  they  thought  only  of  the  thirty  thousand 
pounds,  and  joined  in  the  plot  against  me. 

"  These  were  vile  discoveries  ;  but,  except 
for  the  treachery  of  concealment,  I  should  have 
made  them  no  subject  of  reproach  to  my  wife ; 
even  when  I  found  her  nature  wholly  alien  to 
mine  ;  her  tastes  obnoxious  to  me  ;  her  cast  of 
mind  common,  low,  narrow,  and  singularly  in- 
capable of  being  led  to  any  thing  higher,  ex- 
panded to  any  thing  larger — when  I  found  that 
I  could  not  pass  a  single  evening,  nor  even  a 
single  hour  of  the  day  with  her  in  comfort ; 
that  kindly  conversation  could  not  be  sustained 
between  us,  because,  whatever  topic  I  started, 
immediately  received  from  her  a  turn  at  once 
coarse  and  trite,  perverse  and  imbecile — when 
I  perceived  that  I  should  never  have  a  quiet  or 
settled  household,  because  no  servant  would 
bear  the  continued  outbreaks  of  her  violent  and 
unreasonable  temper,  or  the  vexations  of  her 
absurd,  contradictory,  exacting  orders — even 
then  I  restrained  myself:  I  eschewed  upbraid- 
ing, I  curtailed  remonstrance  ;  I  tried  to  devour 
my  repentance  and  disgust  in  secret ;  I  repress- 
ed the  deep  antipathy  I  felt. 

"  Jane,  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  abomina 
ble  details ;  some  strong  words  shall  express 
what  I  have  to  say.  I  lived  with  that  woman 
up  stairs  four  years,  and  before  that  time  she 
had  tried  rre  indeed  ;  her  character  ripened  and 
developed  with  frightful  rapidity ;  lier  vices 
sprung-up  fast  and  rank  ;  they  were  so  strong, 
only  cruelty  could  check  them ;  and  I  would 
not  use  cruelty.  What  a  pigmy  intellect  she 
had,  and  what  giant  propensities  !  How  fear- 
ful were  the  curses  those  propensities  entailed 
on  me  !  Bertha  Mason,  the  true  daughter  of 
an  infamous  mother,  dragged  me  through  all 
the  hideous  and  degrading  agonies  which  must 
attend  a  man  bound  to  a  wife  at  once  intem- 
perate and  unojiaste. 

"  My  brother  in  the  interval  was  dead ;  and 
at  the  end  of  the  four  years  my  father  died  too. 
I  was  rich  enough  now,  yet  poor  to  hideous  in- 
digence ;  a  nature  the  most  gross,  impure,  de- 
praved 1  ever  saw,  was  associated  with  mine, 
and  called  by  the  law  and  by  society  a  part  of 
me.     And  I  could  not  rid  myself  of  it  by  any 


118 


JANE  EYRE. 


legal  proceedings  ;  for  the  doctors  now  discov- 
ered that  my  wife  was  mad — her  excesses  had 
prematurely  developed  the  germs  of  insanity. 
Jane,  you  don't  like  my  narrative  ;  you  look  al- 
most sick — shall  I  defer  the  rest  to  another 
dayr* 

"  No,  sir ;  finish  it  now  ;  I  pity  you — I  do 
earnestly  pity  you." 

"  Pity,  Jane,  from  some  people,  is  a  noxious 
and  insulting  sort  of  tribute,  which  one  is  justi- 
fied in  hurling  back  in  the  teeth  of  those  who 
offer  it ;  but  that  is  the  sort  of  pity  native  to 
callous,  selfish  hearts  ;  it  is  a  hybrid,  egotistical 
pain  at  hearing  of  woes,  crossed  with  ignorant 
contempt  for  those  who  have  endured  them. 
But  that  is  not  your  pity,  Jane  ;  it  is  not  the 
feeling  of  which  your  whole  face  is  full  at  this 
moment,  with  which  your  eyes  are  now  almost 
overflowing — with  which  your  heart  is  heaving 
— with  which  your  hand  is  trembling  in  mine. 
Your  pity,  my  darling,  is  the  suffering  mother 
of  love ;  its  anguish  is  the  very  natal  pang  of 
the  divine  passion.  I  accept  it,  Jane  ;  let  the 
daughter  have  free  advent — my  arms  wait  to 
leceive  her." 

"  Now,  sir,  proceed  :  what  did  you  do  when 
you  found  she  was  madi" 

"  Jane — I  approached  the  verge  of  despair  ;  a 
remnant  of  self-respect  was  all  that  intervened 
between  me  and  the  gulf  In  the  eyes  of  the 
world  I  was  doubtless  covered- with' grimy  dis- 
honor ;  but  I  resolved  to  be  clean  in  my  own 
sight,  and  to  the  last  I  repudiated  the  contami- 
nation of  her  crimes,  and  wrenched  myself  from 
connection  with  her  mental  defects.  Still,  so- 
ciety associated  my  name  and  person  with  hers  ; 
I  yet  saw  her  and  heard  her  daily  ;  something 
of  her  breath  (faugh!)  mixed  with  the  air  I 
breathed;  and,  besides,  I  remembered  I  had 
once  been  her  husband — that  recollection  was 
then,  and  it  is  now,  inexpressibly  odious  to  me  ; 
moreover,  I  knew  that  while  she  lived  I  could 
never  be  the  husband  of  aflother  and  better 
wife ;  and,  though  five  years  my  senior  (her 
family  and  my  father  had  lied  to  me  even  in 
the  particular  of  her  age),  she  was  likely  to  live 
as  long  as  I,  being  as  robust  in  frame  as  she 
was  infirm  in  mind.  Thus,  at  the  age  of  twen- 
ty-six, I  was  hopeless. 

"  One  night  I  had  been  awakened  by  her  yells 
— (since  the  medical  men  had  pronounced  her 
mad,  she  had,  of  course,  been  shut  up) — it  was 
a  fiery  West-Indian  night ;  one  of  the  descrip- 
tion that  frequently  precede  the  hurricanes  of 
those  climates ;  being  unable  to  sleep  in  bed, 
I  got  up  and  opened  the  window.  The  air  was 
like  sulphur-steams — I  could  find  no  refresh- 
ment any  where.  Mosquitoes  came  buzzing  in 
and  hummed  sullenly  round  the  room ;  the  sea, 
•which  I  could  hear  from  thence,  rumbled  dull 
like  an  earthquake — black  clouds  were  casting 
up  over  it ;  the  moon  was  setting  in  the  waves, 
broad  and  red,  like  a  hot  cannon-ball — she  threw 
her  last  bloody  glance  over  a  world  quivering 
with  the  ferment  of  tempest.  I  was  physically 
influenced  by  the  atmosphere  'and  scene,  and 
my  ears  were  filled  with  the  curses  the  maniac 
still  shrieked  out ;  wherein  she  momentarily 
mingled  my  name  with  such  a  tone  of  demon- 
hate,  with  such  language  !  no  professed  harlot 
ever  had  a  fouler  vocabulary  than  she ;  though 
two  rooms  otf,  I   heard  every  word— the  thin 


partitions  of  the  West-India  house  opposing  but 
slight  obstruction  to  her  wolfish  cries. 

'"This  life,'  said  I,  at  last,  'is  hell!  this  is 
the  air — those  are  the  sounds  of  the  bottomless 
pit !  I  have  a  right  to  deliver  myself  from  it 
if  I  can.  The  sufferings  of  this  mortal  state 
will  leave  me  with  the  heavy  flesh  that  now 
cumbers  my  soul-  Of  the  fanatic's  burning 
eternity  I  have  no  fear ,  there  is  not  a  future 
state  worse  than  this  present  one — let  me  bteak 
away,  and  go  home  to  God  !' 

"  I  said  this  while  I  knelt  down  at  and  un- 
locked a  trunk  which  contained  a  brace  of  load- 
ed pistols  •  I  meant  to  shoot  myself  I  only 
entertained  the  intention  for  a  moment ;  for, 
not  being  insane,  the  crisis  of  exquisite  and 
unalloyed  despair  which  had  originated  ti. 
wish  and  design  of  self-destruction  was  p^.; 
in  a  second. 

"  A  wind  fresh  from  Europe  blew  over  the 
ocean  and  rushed  through  the  open  casement ; 
the  storm  broke,  streamed,  thundered,  blazed, 
and  the  air  grew  pure.  I  then  framed  and  fixed 
a'resolution.  While  I  walked  under  the  drip- 
ping orange-trees  of  my  wet  garden,  and  among 
its  drenched  pomegranates  and  pine-apples,  and 
while  the  refulgent  dawn  of  the  tropics  kindled 
round  me — I  reasoned  thus,  Jane  :  and  now  lis- 
ten ;  for  it  was  true  wisdom  that  consoled  me 
in  that  hour,  and  showed  me  the  right  path  to 
follow. 

"The  sweet  wind  frc«n  Europe  was  still 
whispering  in  the  refreshed  leaves,  and  the  At- 
lantic was  thundering  in  glorious  liberty ;  my 
heart,  dried  up  and  scorched  for  a  long  time, 
swelled  to  the  tone,  and  filled  with  living  blood 
— my  being  longed  for  renewal — my  soul  thirst- 
ed for  a  pure  draught.  I  saw  Hope  revive,  and 
felt  regeneration  possible.  From  a  flowery  arch 
at  the  bottom  of  my  garden  I  gazed  over  the 
sea,  bluer  than  the  sky  ;  the  old  world  was  be- 
yond ;  clear  prospects  opened,  thus  : 

"  '  Go,'  said  Hope, '  and  live  again  in  Europe  ; 
there  it  is  not  known  what  a  sullied  name  you 
bear,  nor  what  a  filthy  burden  is  bound  to  you. 
You  may  take  the  maniac  with  you  to  England  ; 
confine  her  with  due  attendance  and  precau- 
tions at  Thornfield  ;  then  travel  yourself  to 
what  clime  you  will,  and  form  what  new  tie 
you  like.  That  woman,  who  has  so  abused 
your  long-suffering,  so  sullied  your  name,  so 
outraged  your  honor,  so  blighted  your  youth — 
is  not  your  wife  ;  nor  are  you  her  husband.  See 
that  she  is  cared  for  as  her  condition  demands, 
and  you  have  done  all  that  God  and  humanity 
require  of  you.  Let  her  identity,  her  connec- 
tion with  yourself,  be  buried  in  oblivion  ;  you 
are  bound  to  impart  them  to  no  living  being. 
Place  her  in  safety  and  comfort ;  shelter  her 
degradation  with  secrecy,  and  leave  her.' 

"  I  acted  precisely  on  this  suggestion.  My 
father  and  brother  had  not  made  my  marriage 
known  to  their  acquaintance ;  because,  in  the 
very  first  letter  I  wrote  to  apprise  them  of  the 
union — having  already  begun  to  experience  ex- 
treme disgust  of  its  consequences;  and  fiom 
the  family  character  and  constitution,  seeing  a 
hideous  future  opening  to  me— I  added  an  ur- 
gent charge  to  keep  it  secret :  and  very  soon, 
the  infamous  conduct  of  the  wife  my  father  had 
selected  for  me  was  such  as  to  make  him  blusk 
to  own  her  as  his  daughter-in-law.     Far  from 


JANE  EYRE. 


119 


desiring  to  publish  tiie  connection,  lie  became 
as  anxious  to  conceal  it  as  myself. 

"To  England,  then,  I  conveyed  her;  a  fear- 
ful voyage  I  had  with  such  a  monster  in  the  ves- 
sel. Glad  was  I  when  I  at  last  got  her  to 
Thornfield,  and  saw  her  safely  lodged  in  that 
third  story  room,  of  whose  secret  inner  cabi- 
net she  has  now  for  ten  years  made  a  wild 
beast's  den — a  goblin's  cell.  I  had  some  trouble 
in  finding  an  attendant  for  her,  as  it  was  ne- 
cessary to  select  one  on  whose  fidelity  depend- 
ence could  be  placed  ;  for  her  ravings  would 
inevitably  betray  my  secret :  besides,  she  had 
lucid  intervals  of  days — sometimes  weeks — 
which  she  filled  up  with  abuse  of  me.  At  last 
I  hired  Grace  Poole,  from  the  Grirnsby  Retreat. 
She  and  the  surgeon.  Carter  (who  dressed  Ma- 
so,n's  wounds  that  night  he  was  stabbed  and 
worried),  are  the  only  two  I  have  ever  admit- 
ted to  my  confidence.  Mrs.  Fairfax  may,  in- 
deed, have  suspected  something  ;  but  she  could 
have  gained  no  precise  knowledge  as  to  facts. 
Grace  has,  on  the  whole,  proved  a  good  keep- 
er :  though,  owing  partly  to  a  fault  of  her  own, 
of  which  it  appears  nothing  can  cure  her,  and 
which  is  incident  to  her  harassing  profession, 
her  vigilance  has  been  more  than  once  lulled 
and  battled.  The  lunatic  is  both  cunning  and 
malignant ;  she  has  never  failed  to  take  advan- 
tage of  her  guardian's  temporary  lapses  :  once 
to  secrete  the  knife,  with  .which  she  stabbed 
her  brother,  and  twice  to  possess  herself  of  the 
key  of  her  cell,  and  issue  therefrom  in  the 
night-time.  On  the  first  of  these  occasions, 
she  perpetrated  the  attempt  to  burn  me  in  my 
bed ;  on  the  second  she  paid  that  ghastly  visit 
to  you.  I  thank  Providence,  who  watched  over 
you,  that  she  then  spent  her  fury  on  your  wed- 
ding apparel,  which  perhaps  brought  back  vague 
reminiscences  of  her  own  bridal  days  ;  but  on 
what  might  have  happened  I  can  not  endure  to 
reflect.  When  I  think  of  the  thing  which  flew 
at  my  throat  this  morning,  hanging  its  black 
and  scarlet  visage  over  the  nest  of  my  dove, 
my  blood  curdles — " 

"  And  what,  sir,"  I  asked,  while  he  paused, 
"  did  you  do  when  you  had  settled  her  here  1 
"Where  did  you  goT' 

"What  did  I  do,  Jane1  I  transformed  my- 
-^•^^'"into  a  Will-o'-the-Wisp.     Where  did  I  go  1 

i.arsued  wanderings  as  wild  as  those  of  the 
jNlarch-spirit.,  I  sought  the  Continent,  and 
went  devious  through  all  its  lands.  My  fixed 
desire  was  to  seek  and  find  a  good  and  intelli- 
gent woman,  whom  I  could  love  ;  a  contrast  to 
the  fury  I  left  at  Thornfield—" 

"  But  you  could  not  marry,  sir." 

"  I  had  determined  and  was  convinced  that 
I  could  and  ought.  It  was  not  my  original  in- 
tention to  deceive,  as  I  have  deceived,  you.  I 
meant  to  tell  my  tale  plainly,  and  make  my 
proposals  openly  ;  and  it  appeared  to  nie  so  ab- 
solutely rational  that  I  should  be  considered 
ireeto  love  and  be  loved,  I  never  doubted  some 
woman  might  be  found  willing  and  able  to  un- 
derstand my  case  and  accept  me,  in  spite  of 
the  curse  with  which  I  was  burdened." 

"Well,  sir  1" 

"  When  you  are  inquisitive,  Jane,  you  always 
make  me  smile.  You  open  your  eyes  like  an 
eager  bird,  and  make  every  now  and  then  a 
restless  movement ;  as  if  answers  in  speech 


did  not  flow  fast  enough  for  you,  and  you  want- 
ed to  read  the  tablet  of  one's  heart.  But  be- 
fore I  go  on,  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  your 
'  Well,  sir  V  It  is  a  small  phrase  very  frequent 
with  you ;  and  which  many  a  time  has  drawn 
me  on  and  on  through  interminable  talk  ;  I 
don't  very  well  know  why." 

"  I  mean,  what  next  *!  How  did  you  pro- 
ceed 1     What  came  of  such  an  event  V" 

"  Precisely  ;  and  what  do  you  wish  to  know 
now!" 

"  Whether  you  found  any  one  you  liked  ; 
whether  you  asked  her  to  marry  you  ;  and  what 
she  said." 

"  I  can  tell  you  whether  I  found  ^ny  one  I 
liked,  and  whether  I  asked  her  to  marry  me  ; 
but  what  she  said  is  yet  to  be  recorded  in  the 
book  of  Fate.  For  ten  long  years  I  roved 
about,  living  first  in  one  capital,  then  another ; 
sometimes  in  St.  Petersburg  ;  oftener  in  Paris  ; 
occasionally  in  Rome,  Naples,  and  Florence. 
Provided  with  plenty  of  money,  and  the  pass- 
port of  an  old  name,  I  could  choose  my  own 
society  ;  no  circles  were  closed  against  me.  I 
sought  my  ideal  of  a  woman  among  English 
ladies,  French  countesses,  Italian  signoras,. 
and  German  Grafinnen.  I  could  not  find  her. 
Sometimes,  for  a  fleeting  moment,  I  thought  1 
caught  a  glance,  heard  a  tone,  beheld  a  form, 
which  announced  the  realization  of  my  dream  ; 
but  I  was  presently  undeceived.  You  are  not 
to  suppose  that  I  desired  perfection,  either  of 
mind  or  person.  I  longed  only  for  what  suited 
me — for  the  antipodes  of  the  Creole  ;  and  I 
longed  vainly.  Among  them  all  I  found  not 
one,  whom,  had  I  been  ever  so  free,  I — warned 
as  I  was  of  the  risks,  the  horrors,  the  lothings 
of  incongruous  unions — would  have  asked  to 
marry  me.  Disappointment  made  me  reck- 
less. I  tried  dissipation — never  debauchery  ; 
that  I  hated,  and  hate.  That  was  my  Indian 
Messalina's  attribute  ;  rooted  disgust  at  it  and 
her  restrained  me  much,  even  in  pleasure. 
Any  enjoyment  that  bordered  on  riot  seemed  to 
approach  me  to  her  and  her  vices,  and  I  es- 
chewed it. 

"  Yet  I  could  not  live  alone ;  so  I  tried  the 
companionship  of  mistresses.  The  first  I  chose 
was  Celine  Varens  —  another  of  those  steps 
which  make  a  man  spurn  himself  when  he  recalls 
them.  You  already  know  what  she  was,  and 
how  my  liaison  with  her  terminated.  She  had 
two  successors  :  an  Italian,  Giacinta,  and  a 
German,  Clara ;  both  considered  singularly 
handsome.  What  was  their  beauty  to  me  in 
a  few  weeks'!  Giacinta  was  unprincipled  and 
violent ;  I  tired  of  her  in  three  months.  Clara 
was  honest  and  quiet;  but  heavy,  mindless,  un- 
impressible  ;  not  one  whit  to  my  taste.  I  was 
glad  to  give  her  a  sufficient  sum  to  set  her  up 
in  a  good  hue  of  business,  and  so  get  decently 
rid  of  her.  But,  Jane,  I  see  by  yoirr  face  you 
are  not  forming  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  me 
just  now.  You  think  me  an  unfeeling,  loose- 
principled  rake  ;  don't  youT" 

"  1  don't  like  you  so  well  as  I  have  done 
sometimes,  indeed,  sir.  Did  it  not  seem  to 
you  in  the  least  wrong  to  live  in  that  way  ; 
first  with  one  mistress  and  then  another? 
You  talk  of  it  as  a  mere  matter  of  course." 

"  It  was  with  me  ;  and  I  did  not  like  it.  It 
was  a  groveling  fashion  of  existence  ;  I  should 


120 


JANE  EYRE. 


never  wish  to  return  to  it.  Hiring  a  mistress 
is  the  next  worst  thing  to  buying  a  slave  ;  both 
are  often  by  nature,  and  always  by  position,  in- 
ferior ;  and  to  live  familiarly  with  inferiors  is 
degrading.  I  now  hate  the  recollection  of  the 
time  I  passed  with  Celine,  Giacinta,  and  Clara." 

I  felt  the  truth  of  these  words  ;  and  I  drew 
from  them  the  certain  inference,  that  if  I  were 
so  far  to  forget  myself  and  all  the  teaching  that 
had  ever  been  instilled  into  me,  as — under  any 
pretext — with  any  justification — through  any 
temptation — to  become  the  successor  of  these 
poor  girls,  he  would  one  day  regard  me  with 
the  same  feeling  which  now  in  his  mind  dese- 
crated their  memory.  I  did  not  give  utterance 
to  this  conviction  ;  it  was  enough  to  feel  it.  I 
impressed  it  on  my  heart,  that  it  might  remain 
there  to  serve  me  as  aid  in  the  time  of  trial. 

"  Now,  Jane,  why  dont't  you  say  '  Well, 
sir  V  I  have  not  done.  You  are  looking  grave. 
You  disapprove  of  me  still,  I  see.  But  let  me 
come  to  the  point.  Last  January,  rid  of  all  mis- 
tresses^n  a  harsh,  bitter  frame  of  mind,  the 
result  of  a  useless,  roving,  lonely  life — cor- 
roded with  disappointment,  sourly  disposed 
against  all  men,  and  especially  against  all 
womankind  (for  I  began  to  regard  the  notion  of 
an  intellectual,  faithful,  loving  woman  as  a  mere 
dream),  recalled  by  business,  I  came  back  to 
England. 

"On  a  frosty  winter  afternoon,  I  rode  in 
sight  of  Thornfield  Hall.  Abhorred  spot !  I  ex- 
pected no  peace — no  pleasure  there.  On  a 
stile  in  Hay-lane  I  saw  a  quiet  little  figure  sit- 
ting by  Itself  I  passed  it  as  negligently  as  I 
did  the  pollard  willow  opposite  to  it ;  I  had  no 
presentiment  of  what  it  would  be  to  me  ;  no 
inward  warning  that  the  arbitress  of  my  life — 
my  genius  for  good  or  evil — waited  there  in 
humble  guise.  I  did  not  know  it,  even  when, 
on  the  occasion  of  Mesrour's  accident,  it  came 
up  and  gravely  offered  me  help.  Childish  and 
slender  creature  !  It  seemed  as  if  a  linnet  had 
hopped  to  my  foot  and  proposed  to  bear  me  on 
its  tiny  wing.  I  was  surly;  but  the  thing 
would  not  go  ;  it  stood  by  me  with  strange  per- 
severance, and  looked  and  spoke  with  assort  of 
authority.  I  must  bo  aided,  and  by  that  hand  ; 
and  aided  I  was. 

"  When  once  I  had  pressed  the  frail  shoulder, 
something  new — a  fresh  sap  and  sense— stole 
into  my  frame.  It  was  well  I  had  learned  that 
this  elf  must  return  to  me — that  it. belonged  to 
my  house  down  below — or  I  could  not  have 
felt  it  pass  away  from  under  my  hand,  and 
seen  it  vanish  behind  the  dim  hedge,  without 
singular  regret.  I  heard  you  come  home  that 
night,  Jane  ;  though  probably  you  were  not 
<»ware  that  I  thought  of  you,  or  watched  for 
you.  The  next  day  I  observed  you — myself 
unseen — for  half  an  hour,  while  you  played 
with  Adele  in  the  gal|ery.  It  was  a  snowy 
day,  I  recollect,  and  you  could  not  go  out  of 
doors.  I  was  in  my  room  ;  the  door  was  ajar  ; 
I  could  both  listen  and  watch.  Adele  claimed 
your  outward  attention  for  awhile ;  yet  I  fan- 
cied your  thoughts  were  elsewhere  ;  but  you 
were  very  patient  with  her,  my  little  Jane  ; 
you  talked  lo  her  and  amused  her  a  long  time. 
When  at  last  she  loft  you,  you  lapsed  at  once 
into  deep  revery  ,  you  betook  yourself  slowly 
10  pace  the  gallery.     Now  and  then,  in  passing 


a  casement,  you  glanced  out  at  the  thick-falling 
snow ;  you  listened  to  the  sobbing  wind,  and 
again  you  paced  gently  on,  and  dreamed.  I 
think  those  day-visions  were  not  dark ;  there 
was  a  pleasurable  illumination  in  your  eye  oc- 
casionally, a  soft  excitement  in  your  aspect, 
which  told  of  no  bitter,  bilious,  hypochondriac 
brooding ;  your  look  revealed  rather  the  sweet 
musings  of  youth,  when  its  spirit  follows  on 
willing  wings  the  flight  of  Hope,  up  and  on  to 
an  ideal  heaven.  The  voice  of  Mrs.  Fairfax, 
speaking  to  a  servant  in  the  hall,  wakened  you ; 
and  how  curiously  you  smiled  to  and  at  your- 
self, Janet '.  There  was  much  sense  in  your 
smile  ;  it  was  very  shrewd,  and  seemed  to 
make  light  of  your  own  abstraction.  It  seemed 
to  say — '  My  fine  visions  are  all  very  well,  but 
I  must  not  forget  they  are  absolutely  unreal..  I 
have  a  rosy  sky,  and  a  green  flowery  Eden  iu 
my  brain  ;  but  without,  I  am  perfectly  aware, 
lies  at  my  feet  a  rough  tract  to  travel,  and 
around  me  gather  black  tempests  to  encounter.' 
You  ran  down  stairs  and  demanded  of  Mrs. 
Fairfax  some  occupation ;  the  weekly  house- 
accounts  to  make  up,  or  something  of  that 
sort,  I  think  it  was.  I  was  vexed  with  you  for 
getting  out  of  my  sight. 

•'Impatiently  I  waited  for  evening,  when  I 
might  summon  you  to  my  presence.  An  un- 
usual— to  me — a  perfectly  new  character  I 
suspected  was  yours ;  I  desired  to  search  it 
deeper,  and  know  it  better.  You  entered  the 
room  with  a  look  and  air  at  once  shy  and  in- 
dependent ;  you  were  quaintly  dressed — much 
as  you  are  now.  I  made  you  talk  ;  ere  long  I 
found  you  full  of  strange  contrasts.  Your 
garb  and  manner  were  restricted  by  rule ; 
your  air  was  often  diffident,  and  altogether  that 
of  one  refined  by  nature,  but  absolutely  unused 
to  society,  and  a  good  deal  afraid  of  making 
herself  disadvantageously  conspicuous  by  some 
solecism  or  blunder  ;  yet,  when  addressed,  you 
lifted  a  keen,  a  daring,  and  a  glowing  eye  to 
your  interlocutor's  face ;  there  was  pene- 
tration and  power  in  each  glance  you  gave; 
when  plied  by  close  questions,  you  found  ready 
and  round  answers.  Very  soon  you  seemed 
to  get  use  to  me— I  believe  you  felt  the  ex- 
istence of  sympathy  between  you  and  your 
grim  and  cross  master,  Jane ;  for  it  was  as- 
tonishing to  see  how  quickly  a  certain  pleasant 
ease  tranquilized  your  manner ;  snarl  as  I 
would,  you  showed  no  surprise,  fear,  annoy- 
ance, or  displeasure  at  my  moroseness  ;  you 
watched  me,  and  now  and  then  smiled  at  me 
with  a  simple  yet  sagacious  grace  I  can  not 
describe.  I  was  at  once  content  and  stimu- 
lated with  what  I  saw ;  I  liked  what  I  had 
seen,  and  wished  to  see  more.  Yet,  for  a  long 
time,  I  treated  you  distantly,  and  sought  your 
company  rarely.  I  was  an  intellectual  epicure, 
and  wished  to  prolong  the  gratification  of 
making  this  novel  and  piquant  acquaintance ; 
besides,  I  was  for  a  while  troubled  with  a 
haunting  fear  that  if  I  handled  the  flower  freely 
its  bloom  would  fade — the  sweet  charm  of 
freshness  would  leave  it.  I  did  not  then  know 
that  it  was  no  transitory  blossom,  but  rather 
the  radiant  resemblance  of  one,  cut  in  an  in- 
destructible gem.  Moreover,  I  wished  to  see 
whether  you  would  seek  me  if  I  shunned  you — 
but  you  did  not ;  you  kept  in  the  school-roon» 


3AT9E  EYRE. 


121 


as  still  as  your  own  desk  and  easel :  if  by 
chance  I  met  yon,  you  passed  me  as  soon,  and 
with  as  little  token  of  recognition  as  was  con- 
sistent with  respect.  Your  habitual  expres- 
sion in  those  days,  Jane,  was  a  thoughtful 
look  ;  not  despondent,  for  you  were  not  sickly  ; 
but  not  buoyant,  for  you  had  little  hope,  and  no 
actual  pleasure.  I  wondered  what  you  thought 
of  me — or  if  you  ever  thought  of  me  ;  to  find 
ttiis  out,  I  resumed  my  notice  of  you.  There 
was  something  glad  in  your  glance,  and  genial 
in  your  manner,  when  you  conversed  ;  I  saw 
you  had  a  social  heart ;  it  was  the  silent 
school-room — it  was  the  tedium  of  your  life 
that  made  you  mournful.  I  permitted  myself 
the  delight  of  being  kind  to  you  ;  kindness 
stirred  emotion  soon ;  your  face  became  soft 
in  expression,  your  tones  gentle  :  I  liked  my 
name  pronounced  by  your  lips  in  a  grateful, 
happy  accent.  I  used  to  enjoy  a  chance  meet- 
ing with  you,  Jane,  at  this  time  ;  there  was  a 
curious  hesitation  in  your  manner ;  you  glanced 
at  me  with  a  slight  trouble — a  hovei-ing  doubt  ; 
you  did  not  know  what  my  caprice  might  be — 
whether  I  was  going  to  play  the  master,  and  be 
stern — or  the  friend,  and  be  benignant.  I  was 
now  too  fond  of  you  often  to  simulate  tlie  first 
whim;  and,  when  I  stretched  my  hand  out 
cordially,  such  bloom,  and  light,  and  bliss  rose 
to  your  young,  wistful  features,  I  had  much 
ado  often  to  avoid  straining  you  then  and  there 
to  my  heart." 

"  Don't  talk  any  more  of  those  days,  sir,"  I 
interrupted,  furtively  dashing  away  some  tears 
from  my  eyes  :  his  language  was  torture  to 
me  ;  for  I  knew  what  I  must  do — and  do  soon 
— and  all  these  reminiscences,  and  these  reve- 
lations of  his  feelings,  only  made  my  work 
more  difBcult. 

"  No,  Jane,"  he  returned  ;  "  what  necessity 
is  there  to  dwell  on  the  Past,  when  the  Present 
is  so  much  surer — the  Future  so  much 
brighter  V 

I  shuddered  to  hear  the  infatuated  assertion. 

"  You  see  now  how  the  case  stands — ^do  you 
noti"  he  continued.  "After  a  youth  and 
manhood,  passed  half  in  unutterable  misery 
and  half  in  dreary  solitude,  I  have  for  the  first 
time  found  what  I  can  truly  love — I  have  found 
you.  You  are  my  sympathy — my  better  self — 
my  good  angel — I  am  bound  to  you  with  a 
strong  attachment.  I  think  you  good,  gifted, 
lovely  ;  a  fervent,  a  solemn  passion  is  con- 
ceived in  my  heart ;  it  leans  to  you,  draws 
you  to  my  center  and  spring  of  life,  wraps  my 
existence  about  you — and,  kindling  in  pure, 
powerful  flame,  fuses  you  and  me  in  one. 

"  It  was  because  I  felt  and  knew  this,  that  I 
resolved  to  marry  you.  To  tell  me  that  I  had 
already  a  wife  is  empty  mockery  ;  you  know 
now  that  I  had  but  a  hideous  demon.  I  was 
wrong  to  attempt  to  deceive  you  ;  but  I  feared 
a  stubbornness  that  exists  in  your  character. 
I  feared  early  instilled  prejudice ;  I  wanted  to 
have  you  safe  before  hazarding  confidences. 
This  was  cowardly  ;  I  should  have  appealed  to 
your  nobleness  and  magnanimity  at  first,  as  I 
do  now — opened  to  you  plainly  my  life  of 
agony — described  to  you  my  hunger  and  thirst 
after  a  higher  and  worthier  existence — shown 
to  you,  not  my  resolution  (that  word  is  weak) 
but   my  resistless   hent  to  love  faithfully  and 


well,  where  I  am  faithfully  and  well  loved  in 
return.  Then  I  should  have  asked  you  to 
accept  my  pledge  of  fidelity,  and  to  give  me 
yours ;  Jane — give  it  me  now." 

A  pause. 

"  Why  are  you  silent,  Jane  V 

I  was  experiencing  an  ordeal ;  a  hand  of 
fiery  iron  grasped  my  vitals.  Terrible  moment ; 
full  of  struggle,  blackness,  burning  !  Not  a 
human  being  that  ever  lived  could  wish  to  be 
loved  better  than  I  was  loved ;  and  him  who 
thus  loved  me  I  absolutely  worshiped  :  and  I 
must  renounce  love  and  idol.  One  drear  word 
comprised  my  intolerable  duty — "  Depart !" 

"  Jane,  you  understand  what  I  want  of  you  1 
Just  this  promise — '  I  will  be  yours,  Mr.  Roch- 
ester.' " 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  I  will  not  be  yours." 

Another  long  silence. 

"  Jane  !"  recommenced  he,  with  a  gentleness 
that  broke  me  down  with  grief,  and  turned  me 
stone-cold  with  ominous  terror — for  this  still 
voice  was  the  pant  of  a  lion  rising — "  Jane,  do 
you  mean  to  go  one  way  in  the  world,  and  to 
let  me  go  another  1" 

"I  do." 

"  Jane  (bending  tovv'ard  and  embracing  me), 
do  you  mean  it  nowl" 

"I  do." 

"  And  now  V"  softly  kissing  my  forehead  and 
cheek.  ' 

"  I  do — "  extricating  myself  from  restraint 
rapidly  and  completely. 

"  Oh,  Jane,  this  is  bitter !  This — this  is 
wicked.     It  would  not  be  wicked  to  love  me." 

"  It  would  to  obey  you." 

A  wild  look  raised  his  brows — crossed  his 
features :  he  rose,  but  he  forbore  yet.  I  laid 
my  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  for  support ;  I 
shook,  I  feared — but  I  resolved. 

"  One  instant,  Jane.  Give  one  glance  to 
my  horrible  life  when  you  are  gone.  All 
happiness  will  be  torn  away  with  you.  What 
then  is  left  1  For  a  wife  I  have  but  the 
maniac  up  stairs  ;  as  well  might  you  refer  me 
to  some  corpse  in  yonder  church-yard.  What 
shall  I  do,  Jane  1  Where  turn  for  a  com- 
panion, and  for  some  hopel" 

"  Do  as  I  do  ;  trust  in  God  and  yourself. 
Believe  in  Heaven.  Hope  to  meet  again  there." 

"  Then  you  will  not  yield  1" 

"  No." 

'*  Then  you  condemn  me  to  live  wretched, 
and  to  die  "accursed  T'    His  voice  rose. 

"  I  advise  you  to  live  sinless ;  and  I  wish 
you  to  die  tranquil." 

"  Then  you  snatch  love  and  innocence  from 
me  ?  You  fling  me  back  on  lust  for  a  passion 
— vice  for  an  occupation  V 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  I  no  more  assign  this  fate 
to  you  than  I  grasp  at  it  for  myself  We  were 
born  to  strive  and  endure — ^you  as  well  as  I ; 
do  so.  You  will  forget  me  before  I  forget 
you." 

"  You  make  me  a  liar  by  such  language ; 
you  sully  my  honor.  I  declared  I  could  not 
change  ;  you  tell  me  to  my  face  I  shall  change 
soon.  And  what  a  distortion  in  your  judgment, 
what  a  perversity  in  your  ideas,  is  proved  by 
your  conduct !  Is  it  better  to  drive  a  fellow- 
creature  to  despair  than  to  transgress  a  mere 
human   law — no   man   being,  injured    by    the 


122 


JANE  EYRE. 


breach?  for  you  have  neither  relatives  nor 
acquaintances  vi'hom  you  need  fear  to  offend 
by  living  with  me." 

This  was  true  ;  and  while  he  spoke  my  very 
conscience  and  reason  turned  traitors  against 
me,  and  charged  me  with  crime  in  resisting 
him.  They  spoke  almost  as  loud  as  feeling, 
and  that  clamored  wildly.  "Oh,  comply  !"  it 
said.  "  Think  of  his  misery,  think  of  his  dan- 
ger, look  at  his  state  when  left  alone  ;  remem- 
ber his  headlong  nature,  consider  the  reckless- 
ness following  on  despair  ;  soothe  him,  save 
him,  love  him  :  tell  him  you  love  him  and  will 
be  his.  Who  in  the  world  cares  for  you  ?  or 
who  will  be  injured  by  what  you  do  1" 

Still  indomitable  was  the  reply,  "  /  care  for 
myself  The  more  solitary,  the  more  friend- 
less, the  more  unsustained  I  am,  the  more  I 
will  respect  myself.  I  will  keep  the  law  given 
by  God,  sanctioned  by  man.  I  will  hold  to  the 
principles  received  by  me  when  I  was  sane, 
and  not  mad — as  I  am  now.  Laws  and  princi- 
ples are  not  for  the  times  when  there  is  no 
temptation  ;  they  are  for  such  moments  as 
this,  when  body  and  soul  rise  in  mutiny  against 
their  rigor  ;  stringent  are  they  ;  inviolate  they 
shall  be.  If  at  my  individual  .convenience  I 
might  break  them,  what  would  be  their  worth  1 
They  have  a  worth,  so  I  have  always  believed  ; 
and  if  I  can  not  believe  it  now,  it  is  because  I 
am  insane,  quite  insane,  with  my  veins  running 
fire,  and  my  heart  beating  faster  than  I  can 
count  its  throbs.  Preconceived  opinions,  fore- 
gone determinations,  are  all  I  have  at  this  hour 
to  stand  by;  there  1  plant  my  foot." 

I  did.  Mr.  Rochester,  reading  my  counte- 
nance, saw  I  had  done  so.  ,  His  fury  was 
wrought  to  the  highest ;  he  must  yield  to  it  for 
a  moment,  whatever  followed ;  he  crossed  the 
floor  and  seized  my  arta,  and  grasped  my 
waist.  He  seemed  to  devour  me  with  his 
flaming  glance ;  physically,  I  felt,  at  the  mo- 
ment, powerless  as  stubble  exposed  to  the 
draught  and  glow  of  a  furnace  ;  mentally,  I 
still  possessed  my  soul,  and  with  it  the  certain- 
ty of  ultimate  safety.  The  soul,  fortunate- 
ly has  an  interpreter — often  an  unconscious, 
but  still  a  truthful,  interpreter — in  the  eye. 
My  eye  rose  to  his,  and  while  I  looked  in  his 
fierce  face,  I  gave  an  jnvoluntary  sigh  ;  his 
gripe  was  painful,  and  my  overtasked  strength 
almost  exhausted. 

"  Never,"  said  he,  as  he  ground  his  teeth, 
"  never  was  any  thing  at  once  so  frail  and  so 
indomitable.  A  mere  reed  she  feels  in  my 
hand  !  (and  he  shook  me  with  the  force  of  hi^ 
hold.)  I  could  bend  her  with  my  finger  and 
thumb,  and  what  good  would  it  do  if  I  bent,  if 
I  uptore,  if  I  crushed  her  1  Consider  that  eye ; 
consider  the  resolute,  wild,  free  thing  looking 
out  of  it,  defying  me,  with  more  than  courage, 
With  a  stern  triumph.  Whatever  I  do  with  its 
cage,  I  can  not  get  at  it,  the  savage,  beautiful 
creature  !  If  I  tear,  if  I  rend  the  slight  prison, 
my  outrage  will  only  let  the  captive  loose. 
Conqueror  I  might  be  of  the  house,  but  the  in- 
iBate  would  escape  to  heaven  before  I  could 
call  myself  possessor  of  its  clay  dwelling- 
place.  And  it  is  you,  spirit,  with  will  and  en- 
ergy, and  virtue  and  purity,  that  1  want ;  not 
alone  your  brittle  frame.  Of  yourself,  you 
could  come,  wjth  soft  flight,  and  nestle  against 


my  heart,  if  you  would ;  seized  against  your 
will,  you  will  elude  the  grasp  like  an  essence; 
you  will  vanish  ere  I  inhale  your  fragrance. 
Oh  !  come,  Jane,  come  !" 

As  he  said  this,  he  released  me  from  his 
clutch,  and  only  looked  at  me.  The  look  was 
far  worse  to  resist  than  the  frantic  strain  ;  only 
an  idiot,  however,  would  have  succumbed  now. 
I  had  dared  and  baffled  his  fury,  I  must  elude 
his  sorrow  ;  I  retired  to  the  door. 

"  You  are  going,  Jane  1" 

"  I  am  going,  sir." 

"  You  are  leaving  me !" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  will  not  come  1  You  will  not  be  my 
comforter,  my  rescuer  1  My  deep  love,  my 
wild  woe,  my  frantic  prayer,  are  air  nothing  to 
you  V 

What  unutterable  pathos  was  in  his  voice  I    •' 
How  hard  it  was  to  reiterate  firmly,  "  I  am  go- 
ing." i 

"Jane!"  ^ 

"  Mr.  Rochester." 

"  Withdraw,  then,  I  consent ;  but  remember, 
you  leave  me  here  in  anguish.  Go  up  to  your 
own  room  ;  think  over  all  I  have  said,  and, 
Jane,  cast  a  glance  on  my  sufferings  ;  think  of 
me." 

He  turned  away,  he  threw  himself  on  his 
face  on  the  sofa.  "  Oh,  Jane*!  my  hope,  my 
love,  my  life !"  broke  in  anguish  from  his  lips. 
Then  camera  deep,  strong  sob. 

I  had  already  gained  the  door,  but,  reader,  I 
walked  back — walked  back  as  determinedly  as 
I  had  retreated.  I  knelt  down  by  him,  I  turned 
his  face  from  the  cushion  to  me  ;  I  kissed  his 
cheek,  I  smoothed  his  hair  with  my  hand. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  master,"  I  said. 
"  God  keep  you  from  harm  and  wrong,  direct 
you,  solace  you,  reward  you  well  for  your  past 
kindness  to  me."  , 

"  Little  Jane's  love  would  have  been  my 
best  reward,"  he  answered  ;  "  without  it,  ray 
heart  is  broken.  But  Jane  will  give  me  her 
love  ;  yes,  nobly,  generously." 

Up  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face  ;  forth  flashed 
the  fire  from  his  eyes,  erect  he  sprung,  he  held 
his  arms  out,  but  I  evaded  the  embrace,  and  at 
once  quitted  the  room. 

"Farewell !"  was  the  cry  of  my  heart,  as  I 
left  him.     Despair  added,  "  Farewell,  forever  !" 
***** 

Tha  night  I  never  thought  to  sleep,  but  a 
slumber  fell  on  me  as  soon  as  I  lay  down  in 
bed.  I  was  transported  in  thought  to  the 
scenes  of  childhood  :  I  dreamed  that  I  lay  in 
the  red-room  at  Gateshead  ;  that  the  night  was 
dark,  and  my  mind  impressed  with  strange 
fears.  The  light  that  long  ago  had  struck  me 
into  syncope,  recalled  in  this  vision,  seemed 
glidingly  to  mount  the  wall,  and  tremblingly  to 
pause  in  the  center  of  the  obscured  ceiling.  I 
lifted  up  my  head  to  look  :  the  roof  resolved  to 
clouds,  high  and  dim  ;  the  gleam  was  such  as 
the  moon  imparts  to  vapors  she  is  about  to 
sever.  I  watched  her  come,  watched  with  the 
strangest  anticipation,  as  though  some  word  of 
doom  were  to  be  written  on  her  disk.  She 
broke  forth  as  never  moon  yet  burst  from  cloud ; 
a  hand  first  penetrated  the  sable  folds  and 
waved  them  away,  then,  not  a  moon,  but  a 
white  human   form   shone   in   the   azure,   in- 


JANE  EYRE. 


123 


dining  a  glorious  brow  earthward.     It  gazed 
and  gazed  on  me.      It  spoke  to  my  spirit ; 
immeasurably   distant   was   the   tone,  yet   so 
near,  it  whispered  in  my  heart, 
"My  daughter,  flee  temptation  !" 
"Mother,  I  will." 

So  I  answered  after  I  had  waked  from  the 
trance-like  dream.  It  was  yet  night,  but  July 
nights  are  short ;  soon  after  midnight,  dawn 
comes.  "  It  can  not  be  too  early  to  commence 
the  task  I  have  to  fulfill,"  thought  I.  I  rose,  I 
was  dressed,  for  I  had  taken  off  nothing  but  my 
shoes.  I  knew  where  to  find  in  my  drawers 
some  linen,  a  locket,  a  ring.  In  seeking  these 
articles,  I  encountered  the  beads  of  a  pearl 
necklace  Mr.  Rochester  had  forced  me  to  ac- 
cept a  few  days  ago.  I  left  that,  it  was  not 
mine  ;  it  was  the  visionary  bride's  who  had 
melted  in  air.  The  other  articles  I  made  up 
in  a  parcel ;  my  purse,  containing  twenty  shil- 
lings (it  was  all  I  had),  I  put  in  my  pocket ; 
I  tied  on  my  straw  bonnet,  pinned  my  shawl, 
took  the  parcel  and  my  slippers,  which  I  would 
not  put  on  yet,  and  stole  from  my  room. 

"  Farewell,  kind  Mrs.  Fairfax  !"  I  whispered, 
as  I  glided  past  her  door.  "  Farewell,  my  dar- 
ling Adele  !"  I  said,  as  I  glanced  toward  the 
nursery.  No  thought  could  be  admitted  of  en- 
tering to  embrace  her.  I  had  to  deceive  a  fine 
ear ;  for  aught  I  knew,  it  might  now  be  list- 
ening. 

I  would  have  got  past  Mr.  Rochester's  cham- 
ber without  a  pause  ;  but  my  heart  moment- 
arily stopping  its  beat  at  that  threshold,  my  foot 
was  forced  to  stop  also.  No  sleep  was  there  ; 
the  inmate  was  walking  restlessly  from  wall  to 
wall ;  and  again  and  again  he  sighed  while  I 
listened.  •  There  was  a  heaven — a  temporary 
heaven — in  this  room  for  me,  if  I  chose  ;  I  had 
but  to  go  in  and  to  say, 

"  Mr.  Rochester,  I  will  love  you  and  live  with 
you  through  life  till  death,"  and  a  fount  of  rap- 
ture would  spring  to  my  lips.    I  thought  of  this. 

That  kind  master,  who  could  not  sleep  now, 
was  waiting  with  impatience  for  day.  He 
would  send  for  me  in  the  morning  ;  I  should  be 
gone.  He  would  have  me  sought  for ;  vainly. 
He  would  feel  himself  forsaken,  his  love  re- 
jected ;  he  would  suffer,  perhaps  grow  desper- 
ate. I  thought  of  this,  too.  My  hand  moved 
toward  the  lock,  I  caught  it  back  and  glided  on. 

Drearily  I  wound  my  way  down  stairs  ;  I 
knevv  what  I  had  to  do,  and  I  did  it  mechani- 
cally. I  sought  the  key  of  the  side-door  in  the 
kitchen ;  I  sought,  too,  a  phial  of  oil  and  a 
feather,  I  oiled  the  key  and  the  lock.  I  got 
some  water,  I  got  some  bread,  for  perhaps  I 
should  have  to  walk  far,  and  my  strength,  sore- 
ly shaken  of  late,  must  not  break  down.  All 
this  I  did  without  one  sound.  I  opened  the 
door,  passed  out,  shut  it  softly.  Dim  dawn 
glimmered  in  the  yard.  The  great  gates  were 
closed  and  locked,  but  a  wicket  in  one  of  them 
was  only  latched.  Through  that  I  departed ; 
it,  too,  I  shut,  and  now  I  was  out  of  Thornfield. 

A  mile  off,  beyond  the  fields,  lay  a  road  which 
stretched  in  the  contrary  direction  to  Millcote  ; 
a  road  which  I  had  never  traveled,  but  often 
noticed,  and  wondered  where  it  led ;  thither  I 
bent  my  steps.  No  reflection  was  to  be  al- 
lowed now,  not  one  glance  was  to  be  cast  back ; 
not  even  one  forward.    Not  one  thought  was 


to  be  given  either  to  the  past  or  the  future. 
The  first  was  a  page  so  heavenly  sweet,  so 
deadly  sad,  that  to  read  one  line  of  it  would 
dissolve  my  courage  and  break  down  my  ener- 
gy. The  last  was  an  awful  blank,  something 
like  the  world  when  the  deluge  was  gone  by. 

I  skirted  fields,  and  hedges,  and  lanes,  till 
after  sunrise.  I  believe  it  was  a  lovely  sum- 
mer morning ;  I  know  my  shoes,  which  I  had 
put  on  when  I  left  the  house,  were  soon  wet 
with  dew.  But  I  looked  neither  to  rising  sun, 
nor  smiling  sky,  nor  wakening  nature.  He 
who  is  taken  out  to  pass  through  a  fair  scene 
to  the  scaffold,  thinks  not  of  the  flowers  that 
smile  on  his  road,  but  of  the  block  and  ax- 
edge  ;  of  the  disseverment  of  bone  and  vein, 
of  the  grave  gaping  at  the  end  ;  and  I  thought 
of  drear  flight  and  homeless  wandering— and, 
oh  !  with  agony,  I  thought  of  what  I  left !  I 
could  not  help  it.  I  thougiit  of  him  now,  in  his 
room,  watching  the  sunrise,  hoping  I  should. 
soon  come  to  say  I  would  stay  with  him,  and 
be  his.  I  longed  to  be  his,  I  panted  to  return ; 
it  was  not  too  late  ;  I  could  yet  spare  him  the 
bitter  pang  of  bereavement.  As  yet  my  flight, 
I  was  sure,  was  undiscovered.  I  could  go  back 
and  be  his  comforter,  his  pride,  his  redeemer 
from  misery,  perhaps  from  ruin.  Oh,  that  fear 
of  his  self-abandonment — far  worse  than  my 
abandonment — how  it  goaded  me  !  It  was  a 
barbed  arrow-head  in  my  breast ;  it  tore  me 
when  I  tried  to  extract  it ;  it  sickened  me 
when  remembrance  thrust  it  farther  in.  Birds 
began  singing  in  bra1<;e  and  copse  :  birds  were 
faithful  to  their  mates  ;  birds  were  emblems  of 
love.  What  was  1 1  In  the  midst  of  ray  pain 
of  heart,  and  frantic  effort  of  principle,  I  "ab- 
horred myself  I  had  no  solace  from  self-ap- 
probation, none  even  from  self-respect.  I  had 
injured,  wounded,  left  my  master.  I  was  hate- 
ful in  my  own  eyes.  Still  I  could  not  turn,  nor 
retrace  one  step.  God  must  have  led  me  on. 
As  to  my  own  will  or  conscience,  impassioned 
grief  had  trampled  one  and  stifled  the  other.  I 
was  weeping  wildly  as  I  walked  along  my  sol- 
itary way :  fast,  fast  I  went  like  one  delirious. 
A  weakness,  beginning  inwardly,  extending  to 
the  lirtibs,  seized  me,  and  I  felt ;  I  lay  on  the 
ground  some  minutes,  pressing  my  face  to  the 
wet  turf.  I  had  some  fear,  or  hope,  that  here 
I  should  die  ;  but  I  was  soon  up,  crawling  for- 
vvards  on  my  hands  and  knees,  and  then  again 
raised  to  my  feet,  as  eager  and  as  determined 
as  ever  to  reach  the  road. 

When  I  got  there,  I  was  forced  to  sit  to  rest 
me  under  the  hedge  ;  and  while  I  sat,  I  heard 
wheels,  and  saw  a  coach  come  on.  I  stood  up 
and  lifted  my  hand ;  it  stopped.  I  asked  where 
it  was  going,  the  driver  named  a  place  a  long 
way  off,  and  where  I  was  sure  Mr.  Rochester 
had  no  connections.  I  asked  for  what  sum  he 
would  take  me  there  ;  he  said  thirty  shillings  ; 
I  answered  I  had  but  twenty :  well,  he  would 
try  to  make  it  do.  He  further  gave  me  leave 
to  get  into  the  inside,  as  the  vehicle  was  empty : 
I  entered,  was  shut  in,  and  it  rolled  on  its  way. 

Gentle  reader,  may  you  never  feel  what  I 
then  felt  I  May  your  eyes  never  shed  such 
stormy,  scalding,  heart-wrung  tears  as  poured 
from  mine.  May  you  never  appeal  to  Heaven 
in  prayers  so  hopeless  and  so  agonized  as  in 
that  hour  left  my  lips  :  for  never  may  you,  like 


id4 


JANE  EYRE. 


me,  dread  to  be  the  instrument  of  evil  to  what 
you  wholly  love. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Two  days  are  passed.  It  is  a  summer  even- 
ing ;  the  coachman  has  set  me  down  at  a  place 
called  Whitcross,  he  could  take  me  no  farther 
for  the  sum  I  had  given,  and  I  was  not  pos- 
sessed of  another  shilling  in  the  world.  The 
coach  is  a  mile  off  by  this  time ;  I  am  alone. 
At  this  moment  I  discover  that  I  forgot  to  take 
my  parcel  out  of  the  pocket  of  the  coach,  where 
I  had  placed  it  for  safety ;  there  it  remains, 
there  it  must  remain  ;  and  now  I  am  absolutely 
destitute. 

Whitcross  is  no  town,  nor  even  a  hamlet ;  it 
is  but  a  stone  pillar  set  up  where  four  roads 
meet ;  white-washed,  I  suppose,  to  be  more 
obvious  at  a  distance  and  in  darkness.  Four 
arms  spring  from  its  summit ;  the  nearest  town 
to  which  these  point  is,  according  to  the  in- 
scription, distant  ten  miles  ;  the  farthest,  above 
twenty.  From  the  well-known  names  of  these 
towns  I  learn  in  what  county  I  have  lighted ;  a 
north-midland  shire,  dusk  with  moorland,  ridged 
with  mountain;  this  I.  see.  There  are  great 
moors  behind  and  on  each  hand  of  me ;  there 
are  waves  of  mountains  far  beyond  that  deep 
valley  at  my  feet.  The  population  here  must 
be  thin,  and  I  see  no  passengers  on  these  roads  ; 
they  stretch  out  east,  west,  north,  and  south — 
white,  broad,  lonely  ;  they  are  all  cut  in  the 
moor,  and  the  heather  grows  deep  and  wild  to 
their  very  verge.  Yet  a  chance  traveler  might 
pass  by ;  and  I  wish  no  eye  to  .see  me  now ; 
strangers  would  wonder  what  I  am  doing,  lin- 
gering here  at  the  sign-post,  evidently  object- 
less and  lost.  I  might  be  questioned  ;  I  could 
give  no  answer  but  what  would  sound  incredible 
and  excite  suspicion.  Not  a  tie  holds  me  to 
human  society  at  this  moment — not  a  charm  or 
hope  calls  me  where  my  fellow-creatures  are — 
none  that  saw  me  would  have  a  kind  thought 
or  a  good  wish  for  me.  I  have  no  relative  but 
the  universal  mother.  Nature ;  I  will  seek  her 
breast  and  ask  repose. 

I  struck  straight  into  the  heath  ;  I  held  on  to 
a  hollow  I  saw  deeply  furrowing  the  brown 
moorside  ;  I,  waded,  knee-deep  m  its  dark 
growth  ;  I  turned  with  its  turnings,  and  finding 
a  moss-blackened  granite  crag  in  a  hidden  an- 
gle, I  sat  down  under  it.  High  banks  of  moor 
were  about  me ;  the  crag  protected  nty  head : 
the  sky  was  over  that. 

Some  time  passed  before  I  felt  tranquil  even 
here ;  I  had  a  vague  dread  ihat  wild  cattle  might 
be  near,  or  that  some  sportsman  or  poacher 
might  discover  me.  If  a  gust  of  wind  swept 
the  waste,  I  looked  up,  fearing  it  was  the  rush 
of  a  bull ;  if  a  plover  whistled,  I  imagined  it  a 
man.  Finding  my  apprehensions  unfounded, 
however,  and  calmed  by  the  deep  silence  .that 
reigned  as  evening  declined  to  night-fall,  I  took 
confidence.  As  yet  I  had  not  thought ;  I  had 
only  listened,  watched,  dreaded  :  now  I  re- 
gained the  faculty  of  reflection. 

What  was  I  to  do  1  Where  to  go  ?  Oh,  in- 
tolerable questions,  when  I  could  do  nothing 
and  go  nowhere  !  when  a  long  way  must  yet 
be  measured  by  my  weary,  trembling  limbe, 


before  I  could  reach  human  habitation — when 
cold  charity  must  be  entreated  before  I  could 
get  a  lodging  ;  reluctant  sympathy  importuned  ; 
almost  certain  repulse  incurred,  before  my  tale 
could  be  listened  to,  or  one  of  my  wants  re- 
lieved ! 

I  touched  the  heath ;  it  was  dry,  and  yet 
warm  with  the  heat  of  the  summer  day.  I 
looked  at  the  sky;  it  was  pure:  a  kindly  star 
twinkled  just  above  the  chasm  ridge.  The 
dew  fell,  but  with  propitious  softness  ;  no  breeze 
whispered.  Nature  seemed  to  me  benign  and 
good  ;  I  thought  she  loved  me,  outcast  as  I 
was ;  and  I,  who  from  man  could  anticipate 
only  mistrust,  rejection,  insult,  clung  to  her 
with  filial  fondness.  To-night,  at  least,  I  would 
be  her  guest — as  I  was  her  child :  my  mother 
would  lodge  me  without  money  and  without 
price.  I  had  one  morsel  of  bread  yet,  the  rem- 
nant of  a  roll  I  had  bought  in  a  town  we  passed 
through  at  noon  with  a  stray  penny — my  last 
coin.  I  saw  ripe  bilberries  gleaming  here  and 
there,  like  jet  beads  in  the  heath  :  I  gathered  a 
handful  and  eat  them  with  the  bread.  My  hun- 
ger, sharp  before,  was,  if  not  satisfied,  appeased 
by  this  hermit's  meal.  I  said  my  evening  pray- 
ers at  its  conclusion,  and  then  chose  my  couch. 

Beside  the  crag,  the  heath  was  very  deep; 
when  I  lay  down  my  feet  were  buried  in  it ; 
rising  high  on  each  side,  it  left  only  a  narrow 
space  for  the  night-air  to  invade.  I  folded  my 
shawl  double,  and  spread  it  over  me  for  a  cover- 
let ;  a  low,  mossy  swell  was  my  pillow.  Thus 
lodged,  I  was  not,  at  least  at  the  commence- 
ment of  the  night,  cold. 

My  rest  might  have  been  blissful  enough,  only 
a  sad  heart  broke  it.  It  plained  of  its  gaping 
wounds,  its  inward  bleeding,  its  riven  chords. 
It  trembled  for  Mr.  Rochester  and  his  doom  :  it 
bemoaned  him  with  bitter  pity  ;  it  demanded 
him  with  ceaseless  longing ;  and,  impotent  as 
a  bird  with  both  wings  broken,  it  still  quivered 
its  shattered  pinions  in  vain  attempts  to  seek 
him. 

Worn  out  with  this  torture  of  thought,  I  rose 
to  my  knees.  Night  was  come,  and  her  planets 
were  risen  ;  a  safe,  still  night ;  too  serene  for 
the  companionship  of  fear.  We  know  that  God 
is  every  where  ;  but  certainly  we  feel  His  pres- 
ence most  when  His  works  are  on  the  grandest 
scale  spread  before  us ;  and  it  is  in  the  unclouded 
night-sky,  where  His  worlds  wheel  their  silent 
course,  that  we  read  dearest  His  infinitude, 
His  omnipotence.  His  omnipresence.  I  had 
risen  to  my  knees  to  pray  for  Mr.  Rochester. 
Looking  up,  I,  with  tear-dimmed  eyes,  saw  the 
mighty  milky-way.  Remembering  what  it  was 
— what  countless  systems  there  swept  space 
like  a  soft  trace, of  light— I  felt  the  might  and 
strength  of  God.  Sure  was  I  of  His  efficiency 
to  save  what  He  had  made ;  convinced  I  grew 
that  neither  earth  should  perish,  nor  one  of  the' 
souls  it  treasured.  I  turned  my  prayer  to 
thanksgiving  ;  the  Source  of  Life  was  also  the 
Savior  of  Spirits.  Mr.  Rochester  was  safe  :  he 
was  God's,  and  by  God  would  he  be  guarded. 
I  again  nestled  to  the  breast  of  the  hill ;  and 
ere  long,  in  sleep,  forgot  sorrow. 

But  next  day.  Want  came  to  me,  pale  and 
bare.  Long  after  the  little  birds  had  left  their 
nests ;  long  -after  bees  had  come  in  the  sweet 
prime  of  day  to  gather  the  heath  honey  before 


I 


JANE  EYRE. 


185 


the  dew  was  dried — when  the  long  morning 
shadows  were  curtailed,  and  the  sun  filled  earth 
and  sky — I  got  up,  and  I  looked  round  me. 

What  a  still,  hot,  perfect  day !  What  a  golden 
desert  this  spreading  moor  I  Every  where  sun- 
shine. I  wished  1  could  live  in  it  and  on  it.  I 
saw  a  lizard  run  over  the  crag ;  I  saw  a  hee 
busy  among  the  sweet  bilberries.  I  would  fain 
at  the  moment  have  become  bee  or  lizard,  that 
I  might  have  found  fitting  nutriment,  permanent 
shelter  here.  But  I  was  a  human  being,  and 
had  a  human  being's  wants ;  I  must  not  linger 
where  there  was  nothing  to  supply  them.  I 
rose ;  I  looked  back  at  the  bed  I  had  left. 
Hopeless  of  the  future,  I  wished  but  this — that 
my  Maker  had  that  night  thought  good  to  re- 
quire my  soul  of  me  while  I  slept ;  and  that  this 
weary  frame,  absolved  by  death  from  further 
conflict  with  fate,  had  now  but  to  decay  quietly, 
and  mingle  in  peace  with  the  soil  of  this  wil- 
derness. Life,  however,  was  yet  in  ray  pos- 
sessidn,  with  all  its  requirements,  and  pains, 
and  responsibilities.  The  burden  must  be  car- 
ried ;  the  want  provided  for ;  the  suffering  en- 
dured ;  the  responsibility  fulfilled.     I  set  out. 

Whitcross  regained,  I  followed  a  road  which 
led  from  the  sun,  now  fervent  and  high.  By  no 
other  circumstance  had  I  will  to  decide  my 
choice.  I  walked  a  long  time,  and  when  I 
thought  I  had  nearly  done  enough,  and  might 
conscientiously  yield  to  the  fatigue  that  almost 
overpowered  me — might  relax  this  forced  ac- 
tion, and,  sitting  down  on  a  stone  I  saw  near, 
submit  resistlessly  to  the  apathy  that  clogged 
heart  and  limb — I  heard  a  bell  chime — a  church 
bell. 

I  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  sound,  and 
there,  among  the  romantic  hills,  whose  changes 
and  aspect  I  had  ceased  to  note  an  hour  ago,  I 
saw  a  hamlet  and  a  spire.  All  the  valley  at  my 
right  hand  was  full  of  pasture-fields,  and  corn- 
fields, and  wood ;  and  a  glittering  stream  ran 
zig-zag  through  the  varied  shades  of  green,  the 
mellowing  grain,  the  somber  wood-land,  the 
clear  and  sunny  lea.  Recalled  by  the  rumbling 
of  wheels  to  the  road  before  me,  I  saw  a  heavily- 
laden  wagon  laboring  up  the  hill ;  and  not  far 
beyond  were  two  cows  and  their  drover.  Hu- 
man life  and  human  labor  were  near.  I  must 
struggle  on  :  strive  to  live  and  bend  to  toil  like 
the  rest. 

About  two  o'clock  p.  m.  I  entered  the-  vil- 
lage. At  the  bottom  of  its  one  street,  thei^ 
was  a  little  shop  with  some  cakes  of  bread  in 
the  window.  I  coveted  a  cake  of  bread.  With 
that  refreshment  I  could  perhaps  regain  a  de- 
gree of  energy  ;  without  it,  it  would  be  difficult 
to  proceed.  The  wish  to  have  some  strength 
and  some  vigor  returned  to. me  as  soon  as  I 
was  among  my  fellow-beings.  I  felt  it  would 
be' degrading  to  faint  with  hunger  on  the  cause- 
way of  a  hamlet.  Had  I  noj-hing  about  me  I 
could  offer  in  exchange  for  one  oi^  these  rolls  1 
I  considered.  1  had  a  small  silk  handkerchief 
tied  rounds  my  thro»t ;  I  had  my  gloves.  I 
could  hardly  tell  how  men  and  women  in  ex- 
tremities of  destitution  proceeded.  I  did  not 
know  whether  either  of  these  articles  would  be 
accepted :  probably  they  would  not ;  but  I 
must  try. 

I  entered  the  shop':  a  woman  was  there. 
Seeing  a  respectably-dressed  person,  a  lady  as 


she  supposed,  she  came  forward  with  civility. 
How  could  she  serve  me"!  I  was  seized  with 
shame  :  my  tongue  would  not  utter  the  request 
I  had  prepared.  I  dared  not  offer  her  the  half- 
worn  gloves,  the  creased  handkerchief:  be- 
sides, I  felt  it  would  be  absurd.  I  only  begged 
permission  to  sit  down  a  nujment,  as  I  was 
tired.  Disappointed  in  the  expectation  of  a 
customer,  she  coolly  acceded  to  my  request. 
She  pointed  to  a  seat ;  I  sunk  into  it.  I  felt 
sorely  urged  to  weep  ;  but  conscious  how  un- 
seasonable such  a  manifestation  would  be,  I 
restrained  it.  Soon  I  asked  her  "  if  there  were 
any  dressmaker  or  plain-work  woman  in  the 
villager' 

"Yes;  two  or  three.  Quite  as  many  as 
there  was  employment  for." 

I  reflected.  I  was  driven  to  the  point  now. 
I  was  brought  face  to  face  with  necessity.  I 
stood  in  the  position  of  one  without  a  resource  ; 
without  a  friend  ;  without  a  coin.  I  must  do 
something.  What  1  I  must  apply  somewhere. 
Where ! 

"  Did  she  know  of  any  place  in  the  neighbor- 
hood where  a  servant  was  wanted  1" 

"  Nay  ;  she  couldn't  say." 

"What  was  the  chief  trade  in  this  placet 
What  did  most  of  the  people  dol" 

"  Some  were  farm  laborers  ;  a  good  deal 
worked  at  Mr.  Ohver's  needle  factory,  and  at 
the  foundry.'" 

"  Did  Mr.  Oliver  employ  women  1" 

"  Nay  ;  it  was  men"s  work." 

"  And  what  do  the  women  do  V 

"I  knaw  n't,"  was  the  answer.  "Some 
does  one  thing,  and  some  another.  Poor  folk 
mun  get  on  as  they  can.'" 

She  seemed  to  be  tired  of  my  questions  ; 
and,  indeed,  what  claim  bad  I  to  importune 
her  1  A  neighbor  or  two  came  in ;  my  chair 
was  evidently  wanted.    I  took  leave. 

I  passed  up  the  street,  looking  as  I  went  at 
all  the  houses  to  the  right  hand  and  to  the 
left ;  but  I  could  discover  no  pretext,  nor  see 
an  inducement  to  enter  any.  I  rambled  round 
the  hamlet,  going  sometimes  to  a  little  distance 
and  returning  again,  for  an  Iwur  or  more. 
Much  exhausted,  and  suffering  greatly  now  for 
want  of  food,  I  turned  aside  into  a  lane  and  sat 
.down  under'  the  hedge.  Ere  many  minutes 
had  elapsed,  1  was  again  on  my  feet,  however, 
and  again  searching  something — a  resource,  or 
at  least  an  informant.  A  pretty  little  house 
stood  at  the  top  of  the  lane,  with  a  garden  be- 
fore it,  exquisitely  neat,  and  brillianily  bloom- 
ing. I  stopped  at  it.  What  business  had  I  to 
approach  the  white  door,  or  touch  the  glittering 
knocker  1  In  what  way  could  it  possibly  be  the 
interest  of  the  inhabitants  of  that  dwelling  to 
serve  rnc  ']  Yet  I  drev,-  near  and  knocked.  A 
mild-looking,  cleanly-attired  young  woman 
opened  the  door.  In  such  a  voice  as  might  be 
expected  from  a  hopeless  heart  and  fainting 
frame — a  voice  'wretchedly  low  and  faltering — 
I  asked  if  a  servant  was  wanted  here  1 

"  No,"  said  she  ;  "  we  do  not  keep  a  servant." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  could  get  employ- 
ment of  any  kind,"  I  continued.  "  I  am  a 
stranger,  without  acquaintance,  in  this  place. 
I  want  some  work  ;  no  matter  what." 

But  it  was  not  her  business  to  think  for  me, 
or  to  seek  a  place  for  me  :  besides,  in  her  eyes, 


126 


JANE  EYRE. 


how  doubtful  must  have  appeared  my  character, 
position,  tale.  She  shook  her  head,  she  "  was 
sorry  she  could  give  me  no  information,"  and 
the  white  door  closed,  quite  gently  and  civilly  ; 
but  it  shut  me  out.  If  she  had  held  it  open  a 
little  longer,  I  believe  I  should  have  begged  a 
piece  of  bread  ;  for  I  was  now  brought  low. 

I  could  not  bear  to  return  to  the  sordid  vil- 
lage, where,  besides,  no  prospect  of  aid  was 
visible.  I  should  have  longed  rather  to  deviate 
to  a  wood  I  saw  not  far  off,  which  appeared,  in 
Its  thick  shade,  to  offer  inviting  shelter  ;  but  I 
was  so  sick,  so  weak,  so  gnawed  with  nature's 
cravings,  instinct  kept  me  roami-ng  round 
abodes  where  there  was  a  chance  of  food. 
Solitude  would  be  no  solitude — rest  no  rest — 
while  the  vulture  hunger,  thus  sunk  beak  and 
talons  in  my  side. 

I  drew  near  houses  ;  I  left  them,  and  came 
back  again,  and  again  I  wandered  away ;  al- 
ways repelled  by  the  consciousness  of  having 
no  claim  to  ask — no  right  to  expect  interest  in 
my  isolated  lot.  Meantime,  the  afternoon  ad- 
vanced, while  I  thus  wandered  about  like  a 
lost  and  starving  dog.  In  crossing  a  field,  I 
saw  the  church-spire  before  me  :  1  hastened 
toward  it.  Near  the  church-yard,  and  in  the 
middle  of  a  garden,  stood  a  well-built  though 
small  house,  which  I  had  no  doubt  was  the 
parsonage.  I  remembered  that  strangers  who 
arrive  at  a  place  where  they  have  no  friends, 
and  who  want  employment,  sometimes  apply 
to  the  clergyman  for  introduction  and  aid.  It 
is  the  clergyman's  function  to  help — at  least 
with  advice — those  who  wish  to  help-  them- 
selves. I  seemed  to  have  something  like  a 
right  to  seek  counsel  here.  Renewing,  then, 
my  courage,  and  gathering  my  feeble  remains 
of  strength  I  pushed  on.  I  reached  the  house, 
and  knocked  at  the  kitchen-door.  An  old  wom- 
an opened  ;  I  asked  was  this  the  parsonage  1 

"Yes." 

"  Was  the  clergyman  in  V 

"No." 

"  Would  he  be  in  soonl" 

"  No,  he  was  gone  from  home." 

"To  a  distance?" 

"Not  so  far — happen  three  mile.  He  had 
been  called  away  by  the  sudden  death  of  his 
father  ;  he  was  at  Marsh  End  now,  and  would 
very  likely  stay  there  a  fortnight  longer." 

"  Was  there  any  lady  of  the  house  1" 

"  Nay,  there  was  naught  but  her,  and  she 
was  housekeeper  ;"  and  of  her,  reader,  I  could 
not  bear  to  ask  the  relief  for  want  of  which  I 
was  sinking  ;  I  could  not  yet  beg ;  and  again  I 
crawled  away. 

Once  more  I  took  off  my  handkerchiefs 
once  more  I  thought  of  the  cakes  of  bread  in 
the  little  shop.  Oh,  but  for  a  crust !  for  but 
one  mouthful  to  allay  the  pang  of  famine  !  In- 
stinctively I  turned  my  face  again  to  the  vil- 
lage ;  I  found  the  shop  again,  and  I  went  in  ; 
and  though  others  were  there  besides  the 
woman,  I  ventured  the  request,  "  Would  she 
give  me  a  roll  for  this  handkerchief!" 

She  looked  at  me  with  evident  suspicion : 
"  Nay,  she  ndver  sold  stuff  i'  that  way." 

Almost  desperate,  I  asked  for  half  a  cake ; 
she  again  refused.  "  How  could  she  tell  where 
I  had  got  the  handherchief,"  she  said. 

"  Would  she  take  my  gloves  V 


"  No  ;  what  could  she  do  with  them  V 

Reader,  it  is  not  pleasant  to  dwell  on  these 
details.  Some  say  there  is  enjoyment  in  look- 
ing back  to  painful  experience  past :  but  at  this 
day  I  can  scarcely  bear  to  review  the  times  to 
which  I  allude ;  the  moral  degradation,  blent  with 
the  physical  suffering,  form  too  distressing  a  rec- 
ollection ever  to  be  willingly  dwelt  on.  I  blamed 
none  of  those  who  repulsed  me.  I  felt  it  was 
what  was  to  be  expected,  and  what  could  not 
be  helped  ;  an  ordinary  beggar  is  frequently  an 
object  of  suspicion  ;  a  well-dressed  beggar  in- 
evitably so.  To  be  sure,  what  I  begged  was 
employment ;  but  whose  business  was  it  to  pro- 
vide me  with  employment!  Not,  certainly,  that 
of  persons  who  saw  me  then  for  the  first  time, 
and  who  knew  nothing  about  my  character. 
And  as  to  the  woman  who  would  not  take  my 
handkerchief  in  exchange  for  her  bread,  why, 
she  was  right ;  if  the  offer  appeared  to  her 
sinister,  or  the  exchange  unprofitable.  Let 
me  condense  now.     I  am  sick  of  the  subject. 

A  little  before  dark  I  passed  a  farmhouse,  at 
the  open  door  of  which  the  farmer  was  sitting, 
eating  his  supper  of  bread  and  cheese ;  I 
stopped  and  said  : — 

"  Will  you  give  me  a  piece  of  bread  1  for  I 
am  very  hungry."  He  cast  on  me  a  glance  of 
surprise  ;  but  without  answering,  he  cut  a  thick 
slice  from  his  loaf,  and  gave  it  to  me.  I  imag- 
ine he  did  not  think  I  wis  a  beggar,  but  only 
an  eccentric  sort  of  lady  who  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  his  brown  loaf.  As  soon  as  I  was  out  of 
sight  of  his  house,  I  sat  down  and  ate  it. 

I  could  not  hope  to  get  a  lodging  under  a 
roof,  and  sought  it  in  the  wood  I  have  before 
alluded  to.  13ut  ray  night  was  wretched,  my 
rest  broken  ;  the  ground  was  damp,  the  air 
cold  ;  besides,  intruders  passed  near  me  more 
than  once,  and  I  had  again  and  again  to  change 
my  quarters  ;  no  sense  of  safety  or  tranquillity 
befriended  me.  Toward  morning  it  rained  ; 
the  whole  of  the  following  day  was  wet.  Do 
not  ask  me,  reader,  to  give  a  minute  account  of 
that  day  ;  as  before,  I  sought  work  ;  as  before, 
I  was  repulsed  ;  as  before,  I  starved  ;  but  once 
did  food  pass  my  lips.  At  the  door  of  a  cot- 
tage I  saw  a  little  girl  about  to  throw  a  mess 
of  cold  porridge  into  a  pig-trough.  "  Will  you 
give  me  thatT'  I  asked. 

She  stared  at  me.     "  Mother !"  she  exclaim 
ed  ;  "  there  is  a  woman  wants  me  to  give  her 
these  porridge." 

"  Well,  lass,"  replied  a  voice  within,  "  give 
it  her  if  she's  a  beggar.    T'  pig  doesn't  want  it." 

The  girl  emptied  the  stiffened  mold  into  my 
hand,  and  I  devoured  it  ravenously. 

As  the  wet  twilight  deepened,  I  stopped  in  a 
solitary  bridle-path,  which  I  had  been  pursuing 
an  hour  or  more. 

"  My  strength  is  quite  failing  me,"  I  said,  in 
soliloquy.  "  I  feel  I  can  not  go  much  farther. 
Shall  I  be  an  outcast  again  this  night  1  While 
the  rain  descends  so,  must  I  lay  my  head  on 
the  cold,  drenched  ground"!  I  fear  I  can  not 
do  otherwise  ;  for  who  will  receive  me  1  But 
it  will  be  very  dreadful  ;  with  this  feeling  of 
hunger,  faintness,  chill,  and  this  sense  of  deso- 
lation— this  total  prostration  of  hope.  In  all 
likelihood,  though,  I  should  die  before  morning. 
And  why  can  not  I  reconcile  myself  to  the 
prospect  of  death  ?    Why  do  I  struggle  to  re- 


JANE  EYRE. 


187 


tain  a  valueless  life "!  Because  I  know,  or  be- 
lieve, Mr.  Rochester  is  still  living  ;  and  then, 
to  die  of  want  and  cold,  is  a  fate  to  which  na- 
ture can  not  submit  passively.  Oh,  Provi- 
dence !  sustain  me  a  little  longer  !  Aid — di- 
rect me  !" 

My  glazed  eye  wandered  over  the  dim  and 
misty  landscape.  I  saw  I  had  strayed  far  from 
the  village  ;  it  was  quite  out  of  sight.  The 
very  cultivation  surrounding  it  had  disappear- 
ed. I  had,  by  cross-ways  and  by-paths,  once 
more  drawn  near  the  tract  of  moorland  ;  and 
now,  only  a  few  fields,  almost  as  wild  and  un- 
productive as  the  heath  from  which  they  were 
scarcely  reclaimed,  lay  between  me  and  the 
dusky  hill. 

"  Well ;  I  would  rather  die  yonder  than  in  a 
street  or  on  a  frequented  road,"  I  reflected. 
"  And  far  better  that  crows  and  ravens — if  any 
ravens  there  be  in  these  regions — should  pick 
my  flesh  from  my  bones,  than  that  they  should 
be  imprisoned  in  a  workhouse  coffin,  and  mol- 
der  in  a  pauper's  grave." 

To  the  hill,  then,  I  turned.  I  reached  it.  It 
remained  now  only  to  find  a  hollow  where  I 
could  lie  down,  and  feel  at  least  hidden,  if  not 
secure  ;  but  all  the  surface  of  the  waste  looked 
level.  It  showed  no  variation  but  of  tint ; 
green,  where  rush  and  moss  overgrew  the 
marshes  ;  black,  where  the  dry  soil  bore  only 
heath.  Dark  as  it  was  getting,  I  could  still 
see  these  changes,  though  but  as  mere  alter- 
nations of  light  and  shade,  for  color  had  faded 
with  the  daylight. 

My  eye  still  roved  over  the  sullen  swell,  and 
along  the  moor-edge,  vanishing  amid  the  wild- 
est scenery,  when,  at  one  dim  point,  far  in 
among  the  marshes  and  the  ridges,  a  light 
sprung  up.  "  That  is  an  ignis-fatuus,'"  was 
my  first  thought ;  and  I  expected  it  would  soon 
vanish.  It  burned  on,  however,  quite  steadily, 
neither  receding  nor  advancing.  "Is  it,  then,  a 
bonfire  just  kindled  V  I  questioned.  I  watched 
to  see  whether  it  would  spread;  but  no;  as  it  did 
not  diminish,  so  it  did  not  enlarge.  "  It  may 
be  a  candle  in  a  house,"  I  then  conjectured  ; 
*'  but  if  so,  I  can  never  reach  it.  It  is  much  too 
far  away  ;  and  were  it  within  a  yard  of  me, 
what  would  it  avail  !  I  should  but  knock  at 
the  door  to  have  it  shut  in  my  face." 

And  I  sunk  down  where  I  stood,  and  hid  my 
face  again.st  the  ground.  I  lay  still  awhile ; 
the  night-wind  swept  over  the  hill  and  over 
me,  and  died  moaning  in  the  distance  ;  the 
rain  fell  fast,  wetting  me  afresh  to  the  skin. 
Could  I  but  have  stiffened  to  the  still  frost — 
the  friendly  numbness  of  death — it  might  have 
pelted  on  ;  I  should  not  have  felt  it ;  but  my 
yet  living  flesh  shuddered  to  its  chilling  in- 
fluence.   I  rose  ere  long. 

The  light  was  yet  there,  shining  dim,  but 
constant,  through  the  rain.  I  tried  to  walk 
again ;  1  dragged  my  exhausted  limbs  slowly 
toward  it.  It  led  me  aslant  over  the  hill, 
through  a  wide  bog,  which  would  have  been 
impassable  in  winter,  and  was  splashy  and 
shaking  even  now,  in  the  height  of  summer. 
Here  I  fell  twice ;  but  as  often  I  rose  and  ral- 
lied my  faculties.  This  light  was  my  forlorn 
hope  ;  I  must  gain  it. 

Having  crossed  the  marsh,  I  saw  a  trace  of 
white  over  the  moor.    I  approached  it ;  it  was 


a  road  or  a  track ;  it  led  straight  up  to  the 
light,  which  now  beamed  from  a  sort  of  knoll, 
amid  a  clump  of  trees — firs,  apparently,  from 
what  I  could  distinguish  of  the  character  of 
their  forms  and  foliage  through  the  gloom.  My 
star  vanished  as  I  drew  near ;  some  obstacle 
had  intervened  between  me  and  it.  I  put  out 
my  hand  to  feel  the  dark  mass  before  me  ;  I  dis- 
criminated the  rough  stones  of  a  low  wall — 
above  it,  something  like  palisades,  and  within, 
a  high  and  prickly  hedge.  I  groped  on.  Again 
a  whitish  object  gleamed  before  me  ;  it  was  a 
gate — a  wicket ;  it  moved  on  its  hinges  as  I 
touched  it.  On  each  side  ^ood  a  sable  bush — 
holly  or  yew. 

Entering  the  gate  and  passing  the  shrubs,  the 
silhouette  of  a  house  rose  to  view,  black,  low, 
and  rather  long ;  but  the  guiding  light  shone 
nowhere.  All  was  obscurity.  Were  the  in- 
mates retired  to  rest  1  I  feared  it  must  be  so. 
In  seeking  the  door,  I  turned  an  angle ;  there 
shot  out  the  friendly  gleam  again,  from  the 
lozenged  panes  of  a  very  small  latticed  window, 
within  afoot  of  the  ground,  made  still  smaller 
by  the  growth  of  ivy  or  some  other  creeping 
plant,  whose  leaves  clustered  thick  over  the 
portion  of  the  house  wall  in  which  it  was  set. 
The  aperture  was  so  screened  and  narrow,  that 
curtain  or  shutter  had  been  deemed  unneces- 
sary ;  and  when  I  stooped  down  and  put  aside 
the  spray  of  foliage  shooting  over  it,  I  could 
see  all  within.  I  could  see  clearly  a  room  with 
a  sanded  floor,  clean  scoured  ;  a  dresser  of 
walnut,  with  pewter  plates  ranged  in  rows,  re- 
flecting the  redness  and  radiance  of  a  glowing 
peat-fire.  I  could  see  a  clock,  a  white  deal 
table,  some  chairs.  The  candle,  whose  ray 
had  been  my  beacon,  burned  on  the  table  ;  and 
by  its  light  an  elderly  woman,  somewhat  rough- 
looking,  but  scrupulously  clean,  like  all  about* 
her,  was  knitting  a  stocking. 

I  noticed  these  objects  cursorily  only — in 
them  there  was  nothing  extraordinary.  A 
group  of  more  interest  appeared  near  the 
hearth,  sitting  still  amid  the  rosy  peacQ  and 
warmth  suffusing  it.  Two  young,  graceful 
women — ladies  in  every  point — sat,  one  in  a 
low  rocking-chair,  the  other  on  a  lower  stool ; 
both  wore  deep  mourning  of  crape  and  bom- 
basin,  which  somber  garb  singularly  set  off 
their  very  fair  necks  and  faces ;  a  large  old 
pointer  dog  rested  its  massive  head  on  the 
knee  of  one  girl — in  the  lap  of  the  other  was 
cushioned  a  black  cat. 

A  strange  place  was  this  humble  kitchen  for 
such  occupants "  Who  are  they  1  They  could 
not  be  the  daughters  of  the  elderly  person  at  the 
table ;  for  she  looked  like  a  rustic,  and  they 
were  all  delicacy  and  cultivation.  I  had  no- 
where seen  such  faces  as  theirs  :  and  yet,  as  I 
gazed  on  them,  I  seemed  intimate  with  every 
lineament.  I  can  not  call  them  handsome — 
they  were  too  pale  and  grave  for  the  word  :  as 
they  each  bent  over  a  book,  they  looked  thought- 
ful almost  to  severity.  A  stand  between  them 
supported  a  second  candle  and  tv/o  great  vol- 
umes, to  which  they  frequently  referred  ;  com- 
paring them  .seemingly  with  the  smaller  books 
they  held  in  their  hands,  like  people  consulting 
a  dictionary  to  aid  them  in  the  task  of  transla- 
tion. This  scene  was  as  silent  as  if  all  the  fig- 
ures had  been  shadows,  and  the  fire-lit  apart- 


138 


JANE  EYRE. 


ment  a  picture  :  so  bushed  was  it,  I  could  hear 
the  cinders  fall  from  the  grate,  the  clock  tick 
in  its  obscure  corner ;  and  I  even  fancied  I 
could  distinguish  the  click-click  of  the  woman's 
knitting-needles.  When,  therefore,  a  voice 
broke  the  strange  stillness  at  last,  it  was  audible 
enough  to  me. 

"Listen,  Diana,"  said  one  of  the  absorbed 
students  ;  "  Franz  and  old  Daniel  are  together 
in  the  night-time,  and  Franz  is  telling  a  dream 
from  which  he  has  wakened  in  terror — listen  !" 
And  in  a  low  voice  she  read  something,  of 
which  not  one  word  was  intelligible  to  me ;  for 
it  was  in  an  unknown  tongue — neither  French 
nor  Latin.  Whether  it  were  Greek  or  German 
I  could  not  tell. 

"  That  is  strong,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
finished  ;  "I  relish  it."  The  other  girl,  who  had 
lifted  her  head  to  listen  to  her  sister,  repeated, 
while  she  gazed  at  the  fire,  a  line  which  had 
been  read.  At  a  later  day,  I  knew  the  lan- 
guage and  the  book;  therefore,  I  will  here 
quote  the  line  ;  though,  when  I  first  heard  it,  it 
was  only  like  a  stroke  on  sounding  brass  to  me 
— conveying  no  meaning  : 

"  '  Da  trat  hervor  Einer,  anzusehen  wie  die 
Sternen  Nacht.'  Good!  good!"  she  exclaim- 
ed, while  her  dark  and  deep  eye  sparkled. 
»'  There  yOu  have  a  dim  and  mighty  archangel 
fitly  set  before  you  !  The  line  is  worth  a  hun- 
dred pages  of  fustain.  '  Ich  wage  die  Gedan- 
ken  in  der ,  Schale  meines  Zornes  und  die 
Werke  mit  dera  Gewichte  meines  Grimms.'  I 
like  it !" 

Both  were  again  silent. 

"  Is  there  ony  country  were  they  talk  i'  that 
wayl"  asked  the  old  woman,  looking  up  from 
her  knitting. 

"Yes,  Hannah — a  far  larger  country  than 
•England,  where  they  talk  in  no  other  way." 

"  Well,  for  sure  case,  I  knawn't  how  they 
can  understand  t'  one  I'  other  ;  and  if  either 
o'ye  went  there,  ye  could  tell  what  they  said,  I 
guess V 

"  We  could  probably  tell  something  of  what 
they  sai9,  but  not  all — for  we  are  not  as  clever 
as  you  think  us,  Hannah.  We  don't  speak 
German,  and  we  can  not  read  it  without  a  dic- 
tionary to  help  us." 

"And  what  good  docs  it  do  you  V 

"We  mean  to  teach  it  some  time — or  at 
least  the  elements,  as  they  say  ;  and  then  we 
shall  get  more  money  than  we  .do  now." 

"  Varry  like  :  but  give  ower  studying;  yc've 
done  enough  for  to-night." 

"  I  think  we  have  ;  at  least,  I'm  tired.  Ma- 
ry, are  youl" 

"  Mortally  :  after  all,  it's  tough  work  fagging 
away  at  a  language  with  no  master  but  a  lexi- 
con." 

"It  is:  especially  such  a  language  as  this 
crabbed  but  glorious  Deutsch.  I  wonder  when 
St.  John  will  come  home." 

"  Surely  he  will  not  be  long  now ;  it  is  just 
ten  (looking  at  a  little  gold  watch  she  drew 
from  her  girdle).  It  rains  fast.  Hannah,  will 
you  liave  the  goodness  to  look  at  the  fire  in  the 
parlor  1" 

The  woman  rose  ;  she  opened  a  door,  through 
which  I  dimly  saw  a  passage  ;  soon  1  heard  her 
stir  a  fire  in  an  inner  room ;  she  presently  came 
back. 


"  Ah,  childer  !"  said  she,  "  it  fair  troubles  me 
to  go  into  yond'  room  now ;  it  looks  bo  lone- 
some wi'  the  chair  empty  and  set  back  in  a 
corner." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  apron  ;  the  two 
girls,  grave  before,  looked  sad  now. 

"  But  he  is  in  a  better  plane,"  continued 
Hannah  ;  "we  shouldn't  wish  him  here  again. 
And  then  nobody  need  to  have  a  quieter  death 
nor  he  had." 

"You  say  he  never.mentioned  usi"  inquired 
one  of  the  ladies. 

"  He  hadn't  time,  bairn ;  he  was  gone  in  a 
minute — was  your  father.  He  had  been  a  bit 
ailing  like  the  day  before,  but  naught  to  signi- 
fy ;  and  when  Mr.  St.  John  asked  if  he  would 
like  either  o'  ye  to  be  sent  for,  he  fair  laughed 
at  him.  He  began  again  with  a  bit  of  heavi- 
ness in  his  head  the  next  day — that  is,  a  fort- 
night sin' — and  he  went  to  sleep  and  niver 
wakened ;  he  wor  a'most  stark  when  your 
brother  went  into  t'  chamber  and  fand  him. 
Ah,  childer !  that's  t'  last  o'  t'  old  stock — for 
ye  and  Mr.  St.  John  is  like  of  a  different  soart 
to  them  'at's  gone ;  for  all  your  mother  wor 
mich  i'  your  way,  and  a'most  as  book-learned. 
She  wor  the  pictur'  o'  ye,  Mary  ;  Diana  is  more 
like  your  father." 

I  thought  them  so  similar  I  could  not  tell 
where  the  old  servant  (for  such  I  now  conclud- 
ed her  to  be)  saw  the  difference.  Both  were 
fair  complexioned  and  slenderly  made ;  both 
possessed  faces  full  of  distinction  and  intelli- 
gence. One,  to  be  sure,  had  hair  a  shade 
darker  than  the  other,  and  there  was  a  differ- 
ence in  their  style  of  wearing  it ;  Mary's  pale 
brown  locks  were  parted  and  braided  smooth ; 
Dianas  duskier  tresses  covered  her  neck  with 
their  curls.     The  clock  struck  ten. 

"  Yc'll  want  your  supper,  I'm  sure,"  observed 
Hannah ;  "  and  so  will  Mr.  St.  John  when  he 
comes  in." 

And  she  proceeded  to  prepare  the  meal. 
The  ladies  rose ;  they  seemed  about  to  with- 
draw to  the  parlor.  Till  this  moment,  I  had 
been  so  intent  on  watching  them — their  ap- 
pearance and  conversation  had  excited  in  me 
so  keen  an  interest — I  had  half  forgotten  my 
own  wretched  position  ;  now  it  recurred  to 
me.  More  desolate,  more  desperate  than  ever, 
it  seemed  from  contrast.  And  how  impossible 
did  it  appear  to  touch  the  inmates  of  this 
house  with  concern  on  my  behalf — to  make 
them  believe  in  the  truth  of  my  wants  and 
woes— to  induce  them  to  vouchsafe  a  rest  for 
my  w'anderings !  As  I  groped  out  the  door, 
and  knocked  at  it  hesitatingly,  I  felt  that  last 
idea  to  be  indeed  a  mere  chimera.  Hannah 
opened. 

"What  do  you  want!"  she  inquired,  in  a 
voice  of  surprise,  as  she  surveyed  me  by  the 
light  of  the  candle  she  held. 

"  May  I  speak  to  your  mistresses  1"  I  said. 

"  You  had  better  tell  me  what  you  have  to 
say  to  them.    AVhere  do  you  come  from  V 

"  I  am  a  stranger." 

"  What  is  your  business  here  at  this  hourl" 

"  I  want  a  night's  shelter  in  an  outhouse,  or 
any  where,  and  a  morsel  of  bread  to  eat." 

Distrust,  the  very  feeling  I  dreaded,  ap- 
peared in  Ilannalfs  face.  "I'll  give  you  a 
piece  of  bread,'  she  said,  after  a  pause  ;  "but 


JANE  EYRE. 


129 


■we  can't  take  in  a  vagrant  to  lodge ;  it  isn't 
likely." 

"  Do  let  me  speak  to  your  mistresses  ]" 

"No;  not  I.  What  can  they  do  for  yoal 
You  should  not  be  roving  about  now  ;  it  looks 
very  ill." 

"  But  where  shall  I  go,  if  you  drive  me 
away]     What  shall  I  dor' 

"  Oh,  I'll  warrant  you  know  where  to  go,  anti 
■what  to  do.  Mind  you  don't  do  wrong,  thafs 
all.     Here  is  a  penny  ;  now  go." 

"  A  penny  can  not  feed  me,  and  I  have  no 
strength  to  go  farther.  Don't  shut  the  door — 
oh,  don't,  for  God's  sake  !" 

"  I  must — the  rain  is  driving  in." 

"Tell  the  young  ladies — let  me  see  theml" 

"  Indeed  I  will  not.  You  are  not  what  you 
ought  to  be,  or  you  wouldn't  make  such  a  noise. 
Move  off!" 

"  But  I  must  die  if  I  am  turned  away." 

"  Not  you.  I'm  feard  you  have  some  ill 
plans  agate,  that  bring  you  about  folk's  houses 
at  this  time  o'  night.  If  you've  any  followers 
— housebreakers,  or  such  like — any  where 
near,  you  may  tell  them  we  are  not  by  our- 
selves in  the  house.  We  have  a  gentleman, 
and  dogs,  and  guns."  Here  the  honest,  but 
inflexible  servant,  clapped  the  door  to,  and 
bolted  it  within. 

This  was  the  climax.  A  pang  of  exquisite 
suffering — a  throe  of  true  despair — rent  and 
'ieaved  my  heart.  Worn  out,  indeed,  I  was ; 
ijot  another  step  could  I  stir.  I  sunk  on  the 
^et  door-step;  I  groaned — I  wrung  my  hands 
— I  wept  in  utter  anguish.  Oh,  this  specter  of 
death  !  Oh,  this  last  hour,  approaching  in  such 
horror !  Alas !  this  isolation — this  banishment 
from  my  kind !  Not  only  the  anchor  of  hope, 
but  the  footing  of  fortitude,  was  gone — at  least, 
for  a  moment ;  but  the  last  I  soon  endeavored 
to  regain. 

"I  can  but  die,"  I  said,  "and  I  believe  in 
God.     Let  me  try  to  wait  His  will  in  silence." 

These  words  I  not  only  thought,  but  uttered  ; 
and,  thrusting  back  all  my  misery  into  my 
heart,  I  made  an  effort  to  compel  it  to  remain 
there,  dumb  and  still. 

"All  men  must  die,"  said  a  voice,  quite 
close  at  hand ;  "  but  all  are  not  condemned 
to  meet  a  lingering  and  premature  doom,  such 
as  yours  would  be  if  you  perished  here  of 
want." 

"Who  or  what  speaks  1"  I  asked,  terrified  at 
the  unexpected  sound,  and  incapable  now  of 
deriving  from  any  occurrence  a  hope  of  aid. 
A  form  was  near — what  form,  the  pitch-dark 
night  and  my  enfeebled  vision  prevented  me 
from  distinguishing.  With  a  loud,  long  knock, 
the  new-comer  appealed  to  the  door. 

"  Is  it  you,  Mr.  St.  Johni"  cried  Hannah. 

"Yes — yes;  open  quickly." 
■  "  Well,  how  wet  and  cold  you  must  be,  such 
a  wild  night  as  it  is !  Come  in — your  sisters 
are  quite  uneasy  about  you,  and  I  believe  there 
are  bad  folks  about.  There  has  been  a  beggar- 
woman.  I  declare  she  is  not  gone  yet — laid 
down  there  !  Get  up — for  shame  !  Move  off, 
I  say!" 

"  Hush,  Hannah  !    I    have  a  word  to  say 
to   the  woman.     You   have   d6ne   your  duty 
in  excluding,  now  let  me  do  mine  in  admit- 
ting her.    I  was  near,  and  listened  to  both 
I 


you  and  her.  I  think  this  is  a'  peculiar  case. 
I  must,  at  least,  examine  into  it.  Young  wom- 
an, rise,  and  pass  before  me  into  the  house." 

With  difficulty  I  obeyed  him.  Presently  I 
stood  within  that  clean,  bright  kitchen — on  the 
very  hearth — trembling,  sickening  ;  conscious 
of  an  aspect,  in  the  last  degree  ghastly,  wild, 
and  weather-beaten.  The  two  ladies,  their 
brother,  Mr.  St.  John,  the  old  servant,  were  all 
gazing  at  me. 

"  St.  John,  who  is  itl"  P heard  one  ask. 

"  I  can  not  tell ;  I  found  her  at  the  door,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  She  does  look  white,"  said  Hannah. 

"As  white  as  clay  or  death,"  was  respond- 
ed.    "  She  will  fall— let  her  sit." 

And,  indeed,  my  head  swam.  I  dropped; 
but  a  chair  received  me.  I  still  possessed  my 
senses,  though  just  now  I  could  not  speak. 

Perhaps  a  little  water  would  restore  her. 
Hannah,  fetch  some.  But  she  is  worn  to 
nothing.  How  very  thin,  and  how  very  blood- 
less!" 

"A  mere  specter !" 

"Is  she  ill,  or  only  famished  1" 

"  Famished,  I  think.  Hannah,  is  that  milkl 
Give  it  me,  and  a  piece  of  bread." 

Diana  (I  knew  her  by  the  long  curls  which  I 
saw  drooping  between  me  and  the  fire  as  she 
bent  over  me)  broke  some  bread,  dipped  it  in 
milk,  and  put  it  to  ray  lips.  Her  face  was  near 
mine  ;  I  saw  there  was  pity  in  it,  and  I  felt  sym- 
pathy in  her  hurried  breathing.  In  her  simple 
words,  too,  the  same  balm-like  emotion  spoke : 
"  Try  to  eat." 

"  Yes — try,"  repeated  Mary,  gently  ;  and 
Mary's  hand  removed  my  sodden  bonnet  and 
lifted  my  head.  I  tasted  what  they  offered  me  ; 
feebly,  at  first — eagerly,  soon. 

"  Not  too  much,  at  first ;  restrain  her,"  said 
the  brother;  "she  has  had  enough."  And 
he  withdrew  the  cup  of  milk  and  the  plate  of 
bread. 

"  A  little  more,  St.  John ;  look  at  the  avidity 
in  her  eyes." 

"  No  more  at  present,  sister.  Try  if  she  can 
speak  now — ask  her  her  name." 

I  felt  I  could  speak,  and  I  answered :  "  My 
name  is  Jane  Elliott."  Anxious  as  ever  to 
avoid  discovery,  I  had  before  resolved  to  as- 
sume an  alias. 

"  And  where  do  you  live  1  Where  are  your 
friends  1" 

I  was  silent. 

"  Can  we  send  for  any  one  you  knowl" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"What  account  can  you  give  of  yourself  1"  ' 

Somehow,  now  that  I  had  once  crossed  the 
threshold  of  this  house,  and  once  was  brought 
face  to  face  with  its  owners,  I  felt  no  longer 
outcast,  vagrant,  and  disowned  By  the  wide 
world.  I  dared  to  put  off  the  mendicant — to 
resume  my  natural  manner  and  character.  I 
began  once  more  to  know  myself;  and  when 
Mr.  St.' John  demanded  an  account — which,  at 
present,  I  was  far  too  weak  to  render — I  said^ 
after  a  brief  pause  :  ^ 

"  Sir,  I  can  give  you  no  details  to-night." 

"But  what,  then,"  said  he,  "do  you  expect 
me  to  do  for  yaaV 

"  Nothing,"  I  replied.  My  strength  sufficed 
for  but  short  answers.    Diana  took  the  word ;  , 


130 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Do  you  mean,"  she  asked,  "  that  we  have 
now  given  you  what  aid  you  require  ;  and  thai 
we  may  dismiss  you  to  the  moor  and  the  rainy 
night  1" 

J  looked  at  her.  She  had,  I  thought,  a  re- 
markable countenance,  instinct  both  with  power 
and  goodness.  I  took  sudden  courage.  An- 
swering her  compassionate  gaze  with  a  smile, 
I  said  :  "  I  will  trust  you.  If  I  were  a  master- 
less  and  stray  dog,  I  know  that  you  would  not 
turn  me  from  your  hearth  to-night ;  as  it  is,  I 
really  have  no  fear.  Do  with  me  and  for  me  as 
you  like,  but  excuse  me  from  much  discourse  ; 
my  breath  is  short — I  feel  a  spasm  when  I 
speak."  All  three  surveyed  me,  and  all  three 
were  silent. 

"  Hannah,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  at  last,  "let 
her  sit  there  at  present,  and  ask  her  no  ques- 
tions ;  in  ten  minutes  more,  give  her  the  re- 
mainder of  that  milk  and  bread.  Mary  and 
Diana,  let  us  go  into  the  parlor  and  talk  the 
matter  over." 

■  They  withdrew.  Very  soon  one  of  the  la- 
dies returned — I  could  not  tell  which.  A  kind 
of  pleasant  stupor  was  stealing  over  me  as  I 
sat  by  the  genial  fire.  In  an  under  tone,  she 
gave  some  directions  to  Hannah.  Ere  long, 
with  the  servant's  aid,  I  contrived  to  mount  a 
stair-case — my  dripping  clothes  were  removed  ; 
soon  a  warm,  dry  bed,  received  me.  I  thanked 
God  ;  experienced  amid  unutterai)le  exhaustion 
a  glow  of  grateful  joy — and  slept. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  recolleation  of  about  three  days  and 
nights  succeeding  this,  is  very  dim  in  my  mind. 
I  can  recall  some  sensations  felt  in  that  interval ; 
but  few  thoughts  framed,  and  no  actions  per- 
formed. I  knew  I  was  in  a  small  room,  and  in 
a  narrow  bed.  To  that  bed  I  seemed  to  have 
grown  :  I  lay  on  it  motionless  as  a  stone  ;  and 
to  have  torn  me  from  it  would  have  been  al- 
most to  kill  me.  I  took  no  note  of  the  lapse  of 
time — of  the  change  from  morning  to  noon, 
from  noon  to  evening.  I  observed  when  any 
one  entered  or  left  the  apartment ;  I  could  even 
tell  who  they  were;  I  could  understand  what 
was  said  when  the  speaker  stood  near  me  ;  but 
I  could  not  answer :  to  open  ray  lips  or  move 
my  limbs  was  equally  impossible.  Hannah,  the 
servant,  was  my  most  frequent  visitor.  Her 
coming  disturbed  me.  I  had  a  feeling  that  she 
wished  me  away  ;  that  she  did  not  understand 
me  or  my  circumstances  ;  that  she  was  preju- 
diced against  me.  Diana  and  Mary  appeared 
in  the  chamber  once  or  twice  a-day.  They 
would  whisper  sentences  of  this  sort  at  my  bed- 
side—     4, 

*'  It  is  very  well  we  took  her  in." 

"  Yes  ;  she  would  certainly  have  been  found 
dead  at  the  door  in  the  morning,  had  she  been 
left  out  all  night.  I  wonder  what  shQ  has  gone 
through  ■?" 

"  Strange  hardships,  I  imagine,  poor,  ema- 
ciated, pallid  wanderer  !" 

"She  is  not  an  uneducated  person,  I  should 

think,  by  her  manner  of  speaking;  her" accent 

A  was  quite  pure ;  and  the  cloliies  she  took  ofl', 

thougti  splashed  and  wet,  were  little  worn  and 

fine." 


"  She  has  a  peculiar  face  ;  fleshless  and  hag- 
gard as  it  is,  I  rather  like  it ;  and  when  ia 
good  health  and  animated,  I  can  fancy  her  phys- 
iognomy would  be  agreeable." 

Never  once  in  their  dialogues  did  I  hear  a 
syllable  of  regret  at  the  hospitality  they  had  ex- 
tended to  me ;  or  of  suspicion  of,  or  aversion 
to,  myself.     I  was  comforted. 

Mr.  St.  John  came  but  once :  he  looked  at 
me,  and  said  my  state  of  lethargy  was  the  re- 
sult of  reaction  from  excessive  and  protracted 
fatigue.  He  pronounced  it  needless  to  send  for 
a  doctor :  nature,  he  was  sure,  would  manage 
best,  left  to  herself.  He  said  every  nerve  had 
been  overstrained  in  some  way,  and  the  whole 
system  must  sleep  torpid  awhile.  There  was 
no  disease.  He  imagined  my  recovery  would 
be  rapid  enough  when  once  commenced.  These 
opinions  he  delivered  in  few  words,  in  a  quiet, 
low  voice  ;  and  added,  after  a  pause,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  little  accustomed  to  expansive  com- 
ment, "rather  an  unusual  physiognomy:  cer- 
tainly, not  indicative  of  vulgarity  or  degrada- 
tion." 

"  Far  otherwise,"  responded  Diana.  "  To 
speak  truth,  St.  John,  my  heart  rather  warms 
to  the  poor  little  soul.  I  wish  we  may  be  able 
to  benefit  her  permanently." 

"  That  is  hardly  likely,"  was  the  reply.  "  You 
will  find  she  is  some  young  lady  who  has  had  a 
misunderstanding  with  her  friends,  and  has 
probably  injudiciously  left  them.  We  may, 
perhaps,  succeed  in  restoring  her  to  them,  if 
she  is  not  obstinate ;  but  I  trace  lines  of  force 
in  her  face  which  make  me  skeptical  of  her 
tractability."  He  stood  considering  me  some 
minutes  ;  then  added,  "  She  looks  sensible,  but 
not  at  ail  handsome." 

"She  is  so  ill,  St.  John." 

"  111  or  well,  she  would  always  be  plain.  The 
grace  and  harmony  of  beauty  are  quite  wanting 
in  those  features." 

On  the  third  day,  I  was  better  ;  on  the  fourth, 
I  could  speak,  move,  rise  in  bed,  and  turn.  Han- 
nah had  brought  me  some  gruel  and  dry  toast, 
about,  as  I  supposed,  the  dinner  hour.  I  had 
eaten  with  relish  :  the  food  was  good — void  of 
the  feverish  flavor  which  had  hitherto  poisoned 
what  I  had  swallowed.  When  she  left  me,  I 
felt  comparatively  strong  and  revived  ;  ere  long 
satiety  of  repose,  and  desire  for  action  stirred 
me.  I  wished  to  rise  ;  but  what  could  I  put  on  1 
Only  my  damp  and  bemired  apparel ;  in  which 
I  had  slept  on  the  ground  and  fallen  in  the  marsh. 
I  felt  ashamed  to  appear  before  my  benefactors 
30  clad.     I  was  spared  the  humiliation. 

On  a  chair  by  the  bedside  were  all  my  own 
things,  clean  and  dry.  My  black  silk  frock  hung 
against  the  wall.  The  traces  of  the  bog  were 
removed  from  it ;  the  creases  left  by  the  wet, 
smoothed  out ;  it  was  quite  decent.  My  very 
shoes  and  stockings  were  purified  and  rendered 
presentable.  There  were  the  means  of  wash- 
ing in  the  room,  and  a  comb  and  brush  to  smooth 
my  hair.  After  a  weary  process,  and  resting 
every  five  mmutes,  I  succeeded  in  dressing  my- 
self My  clothes  hung  loose  on  me^  for  1  was 
much  wasted  ;  hut  I  covered  deficiencies  with 
a  shawl,  an*!,  once  more  clean  and  respectable- 
looking— no  speck  of  the  dirt,  no  trace  yf  the 
disorder  I  so  hated,  and  which  seemed  so  to 
degrade  me,  left — I  crept  down  u  stone  stair- 


JANE  EYRE. 


181 


ease,  with  the  aid  of  the  banisters,  to  a  narrow, 
low  passage,  and  found  my  way  presently  to 
the  kitchen. 

It  was  full  of  the  fragrance  of  new  bread,  and 
the  warmth  of  a  generous  fire.  Hannali  was 
baking.  Prejudices,  it  is  well. known,  are  most 
difficult  to  eradicate  from  tiie  heart  whose  soil 
has  never  been  iDOsened  or  fertilized  by  educa- 
tion ;  they  grow  there,  firm  as  weeds  among 
stones.  Hannah  had  been  cold  and  stiff,  indeed, 
at  the  first :  latterly,  she  had  begun  to  relent  a 
little  ;  and  when  she  saw  me  come  in  tidy  and 
■well-dressed,  she  even  smiled. 

"What,  you  have  got  up?"  she  said.  "You 
are  better,  then.  You  may  sit  down  in  my 
chair  on  the  hearthstone,  if  you  will." 

She  pointed  to  the  rocking-chair;  I  took  it. 
She  bustled  about,  examining  me  every  now 
and  then  with  the  corner  of  her  eye.  Turning 
to  me,  as  she  took  sonic  loaves  from  the  oven, 
she  asked,  bluntly, 

"  Did  you  ever  go  a-begging  afore  you  came 
here?" 

I  was  indignant  for  a  moment ;  but  remember- 
ing that  anger  was  out  of  the  question,  and  that 
I  had  indeed  appeared  as  a  beggar  lo  her,  I  an- 
swered quietly,  but  still  not  without  a  certain 
marked  firmness, 

"You  are  mistaken,  in  supposing  me  a  beg- 
gar. I  am  no  beggar,  any  more  than  yourself 
or  your  young  ladies." 

After  a  pause,  she  said,  "  I  dunnut  under- 
stand that :  you've  like  no  house,  nor  no  brass, 
I  guess?" 

"  The  want  of  house  or  brass  (by  which  I 
suppose  you  mean  money)  does  not  make  a  beg- 
gar in  your  sense  of  the  word." 

"  Are  you  book-learned  ?"  she  inquired,  pres- 
ently. 

"Yes,  very." 

"  But  you've  never  been  to  boarding-school  ?" 

"I  was  at  a  boarding-school  eight  years." 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide.  "  Whatever  can 
not  ye  keep  yourseln  for,  then  1" 

"  I  have  kept  myself;  and,  I  trust,  shall  keep 
myself  again.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
these  gooseberries  ?"  I  inquired,  as  she  brought 
out  a  basket  of  the  fruit. 

"  Mak'  em  into  pies." 

"  Give  them  to  me  and  I'll  pick  them," 

"  Nay  ;  I  dunnut  want  ye  to  do  naught." 

"  But  I  must  do  something.  Let  me  have 
them." 

She  consented ;  and  she  even  brought  me  a 
clean  towel  to  spread  over  my  dress,  "lest,"  as 
she  said,  "I  should  mucky  it." 

"  Ye've  not  been  used  to  sarvant's  wark,  I 
see  by  your  hands,"  she  remarked.  "Happen 
ye've  been  a  dressmaker?" 

"  No,  you  are  wrong.  And  now,  never  mind 
what  I  have  been  ;  don't  trouble  your  head  fur- 
ther about  me ;  but  tell  me  the  name  of  the 
house  where  we  are." 

"  Some  calls  it  Marsh-End,  and  some  calls  it 
Moor  House." 

"And  the  gentleman  who  lives  here  is  called 
Mr.  St.  .John?" 

"  Nay  ;  he  doesn't  live  here  ;  he  is  only  stay- 
ing awhile.  When  he  is  at  home,  he  is  in  his 
own  parish  at  Morton." 

"  That  village  a  fewr  miles  off  t" 

"Ay." 


"And  what  is  hel" 
"  He  is  a  parson." 

I  remembered  the  answer  of  the  old  house- 
keeper at  the  parsonage,  when  1  had  asked  to 
see  the  clergyman.  "This,  then,  was  his  fa- 
ther's residence?" 

"Ay;  old  Mr.  Rivers  lived  here,  and  his  fa- 
ther, and  grandfather,  and  gurt  (great)  grand- 
father afore  him." 

"  The  name,  then,  of  that  gentleman,  is  Mr. 
St.  John  Rivers?" 

"Ay  ;  St.  John  is  like  his  kirstened  name." 
"And  his  sisters  are  called  Diana  and  Mary 
Rivers?" 
"  Yes." 

"Their  father  is  dead?" 
"  Dead  three  weeks  sin',  of  a  stroke." 
"  They  have  no  mother  ?" 
"The  mistress  has  been  dead  this  mony  a 
year." 

"  Have  you  lived  v/ith  the  family  long?" 
"  I've  lived  here  thirty  year.     I  nursed  them 
all  three." 

"That  proves  you  must  have  been  an  honest 
and  faithful  servant.  I  will  say  so  much  for 
you,  though  you  have  had  the  incivility  to  call 
me  a  beggar." 

She  again  regarded  me  with  a  surprised  stare. 
"  I  believe,"  she  said,  "  1  was  quite  mista'en  in 
my  thoughts  of  you ;  but  there  is  so  mony  cheats 
goes  about,  you  mun  forgie  me." 

"And  though,"  I  continued,  rather  severely, 
"you  wished  to  turn  me  from  the  door,  on  a 
night  when  you  should  not  have  shut  out  a 
dog." 

"  Well,  it  was  hard  :  but  what  can  a  body  do ! 
I  thought  more  o'  lli'  childer  nor  of  mysel ;  poor 
things  !  They've  like  nobody  to  tak'  care  on 
em  but  me      I'm  like  to  look  sharpish." 

I  maintained  a  grave  silence  for  some  min- 
utes. 

"  You  munnut  think  too  hardly  of  me,"  she 
again  remarked. 

"  But  I  do  think  hardly  of  you,"  I  said  ;  "  and 
I'll  tell  you  why — not  so  much  because  you  re- 
fused to  give  me  shelter,  or  regarded  me  as  an 
impostor,  as  because  you  just  now  made  it  a 
species  of  reproach  that  I  had  no  "  brass"  and 
no  house.  Some  of  the  best  people  that  ever 
lived  have  been  as  destitute  as  I  am;  and  if  you 
are  a  Christian,  you  ought  not  to  consider  pov- 
erty a  crime." 

"  No  more  I  ought ;"  said  she ;  "  Mr.  St.  John 
tells  me  so  too  ;  and  I  see  1  wor  wrang — but 
I've  clear  a  difTerent  notion  on  you  now  to  what 
I  had.  You  look  a  raight  down  dacent  little 
crater." 

"  That  will  do — I  forgive  you  now.  Shake 
hands." 

She  put  her  floury  and  horny  hand  into  mine  ; 
another  and  heartier  smile  illumined  her  rough 
face,  and  from  that  moment  we  were  friends. 

Hannah  was  evidently  lond  of  talking.  While 
I  picked  the  fruit,  and  she  made  the  paste  for 
the  pies,  she  proceeded  to  give  me  sundry  de- 
tails about  her  deceased  master  and  mistress, 
and  "the  childer,"  as  she  callecf  the  youog 
people. 

Old  Mr.  Rivers,  she  said,  was  a  plain  ttian 
enough  ;  but  a  gentleman,  and  of  as  ancient  a 
family  as  could  be  found.  Marsh-End  had  be- 
longed to  the  Rivers'  ever  since  it  was  a  house  t 


132 


JANE  EYRE. 


and  it  was,  she  affirmed,  "  aboon  two  hundred 
year  old — for  all  it  looked  but  a  small,  humble 
place,  naught  to  compare  wi'  Mr.  Oliver's  grand 
hall  down  i'  Morton  Vale.  But  she  could  re- 
member Bill  Oliver's  father,  a  journeyman 
needle-maker  ;  apd  th'  Rivers'  wor  gentry  i'  th' 
owd  days  o'  th'  Henrys,  as  ony  body  might  see 
by  looking  into  th'  registers  i'  Morton  Church 
vestry."  Still,  she  allowed,  "  the  owd  maister 
was  like  other  folk — naught  mich  out  o'  t'  com- 
mon way  :  stSrk  mad  o'  shooting,  and  farming, 
arid  sich  like."  The  mistress  was  different. 
She  was  a  great  reader,  and  studied  a  deal ; 
and  the  "  bairns"  had  taken  after  her.  There 
was  nothing  like  them  in  these  parts,  nor  ever 
had  been  :  they  had  liked  learning,  all  three, 
almost  from  the  time  they  could  speak  ;  and 
they  had  always  been  "  of  a  mak'  of  their  own." 
Mr.  St.  John,  when  he  grew  up,  would  go  to 
college  and  be  a  parson  ;  and  the  girls,  as  soon 
as  they  left  school,  would  seek  places  as  gov- 
ernesses :  for  they  had  told  her  their  father  had 
some  years  ago  lost  a  great  deal  of  money,  by  a 
man  he  had  trusted  turning  bankrupt ;  and  as 
he  was  now  not  rich  enough  to  give  them  for- 
tunes, they  must  provide  for  themselves.  They 
had  lived  very  little  at  home  for  a  long  while, 
and  were  only  come  now  to  stay  a  few  weeks 
on  account  of  their  father's  death  :  but  they  did 
so  like  Marsh-End  and  Morton,  and  all  these 
moors  and  hills  about.  They  had  been  in  Lon- 
don, and  many  other  grand  towns  :  but  they 
always  said  there  was  no  place  like  home  :  and 
then  they\vere  so  agreeable  with  each  other — 
never  fell  out  nor  "  threaped."  She  did  not 
know  where  there  was  such  a  fainily  for  being 
united. 

Having  finished  my  task  of  gooseberry  pick- 
ing, I  asked  where  the  two  ladies  and  their 
brother  were  now. 

"  Gone  over  to  Morton  for  a  walk  ;  but  they 
would  be  back  in  half  an  hour  to  tea." 

They  returned  within  the  time  Hannah  had 
allotted  them  ;  they  entered  by  the  kitchen 
door.  Mr.  St.  John,  when  he  saw  me,  merely 
bowed  and  passed  through ;  the  two  ladies 
stopped  :  Mary,  in  a  few  words,  kindly  and 
calmly  expressed  the  pleasure  she  felt  in  seeing 
mo  well  enough  to  be  able  to  come  down  ;  Diana 
took  my  hand  :  she  shook  her  head  at  me. 

"You  should  have  waited  for  ray  leave  to 
descend,"  she  said.  "  You  still  look  very  pale 
— and  so  thin  !     Poor  child  !  poor  girl !" 

Diana  had  a  voice  toned,  to  my  ear,  like  the 
cooing  of  a  dove.  She  possessed  eyes  whose 
gaze  1  delighted  to  encounter.  Her  whole  face 
seemed  to  me  full  of  charm.  Mary's  counte- 
nance was  equally  intelligent  —  her  features 
equally  pretty  :  but  her  expression  was  more 
reserved ;  and  her  manners,  though  gentle, 
more  distant.  Diana  looked  and  spoke  with  a 
certain  authority  :  she  had  a  will  evidently.  It 
was  my  nature  to  feel  pleasure  in  yielding  to 
an  authority  supported  like  hers  ;  and  to  bend, 
where  my  conscience  and  self-respect  permitted, 
to  an  active  will. 

"Anit^vhat  business  have  you  here?"  she 
continued.  "  It  is  not  your  place.  Mary  and  I 
sit  in  the  kitchen  sometimes,  because  at  home 
■we  like  to  be  free,  even  to  license — but  you  are 
a  visitor,  and  must  go  into  the  parlor." 
"  I  um  very  well  here." 


"  Not  at  all — with  Hannah  bustling  about  and 
covering  you  with  flour." 

"  Besides,  the  fire  is  too  hot  for  you,"  inter- 
posed Mary. 

,"  To  be  sure,"  added  her  sister.  "  Come, 
you  must  be  obedient."  And  still  holding  my 
hand,  she  made  me  rise,  and  led  me  into  the 
inner  room. 

"  Sit  there,"  she  said,  placing  me  on  the  sofa, 
"  while  we  take  our  things  off  and  get  the  tea 
ready :  it  is  another  privilege  we  exercise  ia 
our  little  moorland  home — to  prepare  our  owa 
meals  when  we  are  so  inclined  ;  or  when  Han- 
nah is  baking,  brewing,  washing,  or  ironing." 

She  closed  the  door,  leaving  me  solus  with: 
Mr.  St.  John,  who  sat  opposite  ;  a  book  or 
newspaper  in  his  hand.  I  examined,  first,  the 
parlor,  and  then  its  occupant. 

The  parlor  was  rather  a  small  room,  very 
plainly  furnished,  yet  comfortable,  because 
clean  and  neat.  The  old-fashioned  chairs  were 
very  bright,  and  the  walnut-wood  table  was  like 
a  looking-glass.  A  few  strange,  antique  por- 
traits of  the  men  and  women  of  other  days 
decorated  the  stained  walls ;  a  cupboard  with, 
glass  doors  contained  some  books  and  an  an- 
cient set  of  china.  There  was  no  superfluous 
ornament  in  the  room — not  one  modern  piece 
of  furniture,  save  a  brace  of  work-boxes  and  3 
lady's  desk  in  rosewood,  which  stood  on  a  side- 
table  :  every  thing — including  the  carpet  and 
curtains — looked  at  once  well  worn  and  well 
saved. 

Mr.  St.  John — sitting  as  still  as  one  of  the 
dusky  pictures  on  the  walls,  keeping  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  page  he  perused,  and  his  lips  mutely 
sealed — was  easy  enough  to  examine.  Had  he 
been  a  statue  instead  of  a  man,  he  couVi  not 
have  been  easier.  He  was  young — perhaps 
from  twenty-eight  to  thirty — tall,  slender ;  his 
face  riveted  the  eye :  it  was  like  a  Greek  face, 
very  pure  in  outline  ;  quite  a  straight,  classic 
nose  ;  quite  an  Athenian  mouth  and  chin.  It 
is  seldom,  indeed,  an  English  face  comes  so 
near  the  antique  models  as  did  his.  He  might 
well  be  a  little  shocked  at  the  irregularity  of  my 
lineaments,  his  own  being  so  harmonious.  His 
eyes  were  large  and  blue,  with  brown  lashes ; 
his  high  forehead,  colorless  as  ivory,  was  par- 
tially streaked  over  by  careless  locks  of  fair 
hair. 

This  is  a  gentle  delineation,  is  it  noi,  reader? 
Yet  he  whom  it  describes  scarcely  impressed 
one  with  the  idea  of  a  gentle,  a  yielding,  aa 
impressible,  or  even  of  a  placid  nature.  Quies- 
cent as  he  now  sat,  there  was  something  about 
his  nostril,  his  mouth,  his  brow,  which,  to  my 
perceptions,  indicated  elements  within  either 
restless,  or  hard,  or  eager.  He  did  not  speak 
to  me  one  word,  nor  even  direct  to  me  one 
glance,  till  his  sisters  returned.  Diana,  as  she 
passed  in  and  out,  in  the  course  of  preparing 
tea,  brought  me  a  little  cake,  baked  on  the  top 
of  the  oven. 

"Eat  that  now,"  she  said;  "you  must  be 
hungry.  Hannah  says  you  have  had  nothing 
but  some  gruel  since  breakfast." 

I  did  not  refuse  it,  for  my  appetite  was  awa- 
kened and  keen.  Mr.  Rivers  now  closed  his 
book,  approached  the  table,  and,  as  he  took  a 
seat,  fixed  his  blue,  pictorial-looking  eyes  full 
upon  me.     There  was  aa  unceremonious  di- 


JANE  EYRE. 


133 


Tectness,  a  searching,  decided  steadfastness  in 
his  gaze  now,  whicli  told  that  intention,  and 
not  diffidence,  hadhitlierto  kept  it  averted  from 
the  stranger. 

"You  are  very  hungry,"  he  said. 

"  I  am,  sir."  It  is  my  way — it  always  vyas 
my  way  by  instinct — ever  to  meet  the  brief 
with  brevity,  the  direct  with  plainness. 

"  It  is  well  for  you  that  a  low  fever  has  forced 
you  to  abstain  for  the  lasf  three  days  ;  there 
would  have  been  danger  in  yielding  to  the  crav- 
ings of  your  appetite  at  first.  Novir  you  may 
eat ;  though  still  not  immoderately." 

"  I  trust  that  I  shall  not  eat  long  at  your  ex- 
pense, sir,"  was  my  very  clumsily-contrived, 
unpolished  answer. 

"  No,"  he  said,  coolly  ;  "  when  you  have  in- 
dicated to  us  the  residence  of  your  friends,  we 
can  write  to  them,  and  you  may  be  restored  to 
home." 

"  That,  I  must  plainly  tell  you,  it  is  out  of 
my  potver  to  do  ;  being  absolutely  without 
home  and  friends." 

The  three  looked  at  me  ;  but  not  distrustful- 
ly. I  felt  there  was  no  suspicion  in  their  glan- 
ces :  there  was  more  of  curiosity.  I  speak 
particularly  of  the  young  ladies.  St.  John's 
eyes,  though  clear  enough  in  a  literal  sense, 
in  a  figurative  one  were  difficult  to  fathom.  He 
seemed  to  use  them  rather  as  instruments  to» 
search  other  people's  thoughts,  than  as  agents 
to  reveal  his  own ;  the  which  combination  of 
ieenness  and  reserve  was  considerably  more 
calculated  to  embarrass  than  to  encourage. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  he  asked,  "  that  you 
are  completely  isolated  from  every  connection?*" 

"  I  do.     Not  a  tie  links  me  to  any  living 
thing,  not  a  claim  do  I  possess  to  admittance 
under  any  roof  in  England." 
,     "  A  most  singular  position  at  your  age  !" 

Here  I  saw  his  glance  directed  to  my  hands, 
which  were  folded  on  the  table  before.  I  won- 
dered what  he  sought  there  ;  his  words  soon 
explained  the  quest. 

"  You  have  never  been  married  ]  You  are 
a  spinster  1" 

Diana  laughed.  "  Why,  she  can't  be  above 
seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old,  St.  John," 
said  she. 

"  I  am  near  nineteen,  but  I  am  not  married. 
No." 

I  felt  a  burning  glow  mount  to  my  face,  for 
bitter  and  agitating  recollections  were  awaken- 
ed by  the  allusion  to  marriage.  They  all  saw 
the  embarrassment  and  the  emotion.  Diana 
and  Mary  relieved  me  by  turning  their  eyes 
elsewhere  than  to  my  crimsoned  visage  ;  but 
the  colder  and  sterner  brother  continued  to 
gaze,  till  the  trouble  he  had  excited  forced  out 
tears  as  well  as  color. 

*'  Where  did  you  last  reside  1"  he  now  asked. 

"  You  are  "too  inquisitive,  St.  John,"  mur- 
mured Mary,  in  a  low  voice  ;  but  he  leaned  over 
the  table  and  required  an  answer,  by  a  second 
firm  and  piercing  look. 

"  The  name  of  the  place  where,  and  of  the 
person  with  whom  I  lived,  is  my  secret,"  I  re- 
plied, concisely. 

"  Which,  if  you  like,  you  have,  in  my  opinion, 
a  right  to  keep,  both  from  St.  John  and  every 
other  questioner,"  remarked  Diana. 

"  Yet  if  I  know  nothing  about  you  or  your 


history,  I  can  not  help  you,"  he  said.     "And 
you  need  help,  do  you  not  1"  i 

"  I  need  it,  and  I  seek  it ;  so  far,  sir,  that 
some  true  philanthropist  will  put  me  in  the 
way  of  getting  work  which  I  can  do,  and  the 
remuneration  for  which  will  keep  me,  if  but 
in  the  barest  necessaries  of  life." 

"  I  know  not  whether  I  am  a  true  philanthro- 
pist, yet  I  am  willing  to  aid  you  to  the  utmost 
of  my  power  in  a  purpose  so  honest.  First, 
then,  tell  me  what  you  have  been  accustomed 
to  do,  and  what  you  can  do." 

I  had  now  swallowed  my  tea.  I  was  mightily 
refreshed  by  the  beverage,  as  much  so  as  a  giant 
with  wine ;  it  gave  new  tone  to  my  unstrung 
nerves,  and  enabled  me  to  address  this  pene- 
trating young  judge  steadily. 

"Mr.  Rivers,"  I  said,  turning  to  him,  and 
looking  at  him  as  he  looked  at  me,  openly  and 
without  diffidence,  "  you  and  your  sisters  have 
done  me  a  great  service,  the  greatest  man  can 
do  his  fellow-being  :  you  liaye  rescued  me,  by 
your  noble  hospitality,  from  death.  This  bene- 
fit conferred  gives  you  an  unlimited  claim  on 
my  gratitude,  and  a  claim,  to  a  certain  extent, 
on  my  confidence.  I  will  tell  you  as  much  of 
the  history  of  the  wanderer  you  have  harbored 
as  I  can  tell  without  compromising  my  own 
peace  of  mind — my  own  security,  moral  and 
physical,  and  that  of  others. 

"  I  am  an  orphan,  the  daughter  of  a  clergy- 
man. My  parents  died  before  I  could  know 
them.  I  was  brought  up  a  dependent ;  educa- 
ted at  a  charitable  institution.  I  will  even  tell 
you  the  name  of  the  establishment,  where  I 
passed  six  years  as  a  pupil,  and  two  as  a  teach- 
er, Lowood  Orphan   Asylum,  shire :    you 

will  have  heard  of  it,  Mr.  Rivers  1     The  Rev. 
Robert  Brocklehurst  is  the  treasurer." 

"  I  have  heard  of  Mr.  Brocklehurst,  and  I 
have  seen  the  school." 

"  I  left  Lowood  nearly  a  year  since  to  be- 
come a  private  governess.  I  obtamed  a  good 
situation,  and  was  happy.  This  place  I  was 
obliged  to  leave  four  days  before  I  came  here. 
The  reason  of  my  departure  I  can  not  and  ought 
not  to  explain  ;  it  would  be  useless,  dangerous, 
and  would  sound  incredible.  No  blame  at- 
tached to  me  ;  I  am  as  free  from  culpability  as 
any  one  of-  you  three.  Miserable  I  am  and 
must  be  for  a  time,  for  the  catastrophe  which 
drove  me  from  a  house  I  had  found  a  paradise 
was  of  a  strange  and  direful  nature.  I  observed 
but  twopoints  in  planning  my  departure — speed, 
secrecy  ;  to  secure  these,  I  had  to  leave  be- 
hind me  every  thing  I  possessed,  except  a  small 
parcel,  which,  in  my  hurry  and  trouble  of  mind,  ■ 
I  forgot  to  take  out  of  the  coach  that  brought 
me  to  Whitcross.  To  this  neighborhood,  then, 
I  came,  quite  destitute.  I  slept  two  nights  ia 
the  open  air,  and  wandered  about  two  days 
without  crossing  a  threshold  ;  but  twice  in  that 
space  of  time  did  I  taste  food,  and  it  was  when 
brought  by  hunger,  exhaustion,  and  despair, 
almost  to  the  last  gasp,  that  you,  Mr.  Rivers, 
forbade  me  to  perish  with  want  at  your  door, 
and  took  me  under  the  shelter  of  your  roof.  I 
know  all  your  sisters  have  done  for  me  since, 
for  I  have  not  been  insensible  during  my  seem- 
ing torpor,  and  I  owe  to  their  spontaneous, 
genuine,  genial  compassion  as  large  a  debt  as 
to  your  evangelical  charity." 


134 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Don't  make  her  talk  any  more  now,  St. 
John,"  said  Diana,  as  1  paused;  "she  is  evi- 
dently not  yet  fit  for  excitement.  Come  to  the 
sofa,  and  sit  down  now,  Miss  Elliott." 

I  gave  an  involuntary  half-start  at  hearing 
the  alias;  I  had  forgotten  my  new  name.  Mr. 
Rivers,  whom  nothing  seemed  to  escape,  no- 
ticed it  at  once. 

"  You  said  your  name  was  Jane  Elliott  V'  he 
observed. 

"  I  did  say  so,  and  it  is  the  name  by  which  I 
think  it  expedient  to  be  called  at  present ;  but  it 
is  not  my  real  name,  and  when  1  hear  it  it 
sounds  strange  to  me." 

"  Your  real  name  you  will  aot  give  1" 

"No  ;  I  fear  discovery  above  all  things,  and 
whatever  disclosure  would  lead  to  it  I  avoid." 

"  You  are  quite  right,  I  am  sure,"  said  Diana. 
"  Now,  do,  brother,  let  her  be  at  peace  a  while." 

But  when  St.  John  had  mused  a  few  mo- 
ments, he  recommenced,  as  imperturbably,  and 
■with  as  much  acumen  as  ever. 

"  You  would  not  like  to  be  long  dependent  on 
our  hospitality — you  would  wish,  I  see,  to  dis- 
pense as  soon  as  may  be  with  my  sisters'  com- 
passion ;  and,  above  all,  with  my  charity  (I  am 
quite  sensible  of  the  distinction  drawn,  nor  do 
I  resent  it — it  is  just) :  you  desire  to  be  inde- 
pendent of usi" 

"  I  do ;  I  have  already  said  so.  Show  me 
how  to  work,  or  how  to, seek  work ;  that  is  all 
I  now  ask ;  then  let  me  go,  if  it  be  but  to  the 
meanest  cottage — but  till  the?},  allow  me  to  stay 
here  ;  I  dread  another  essay  of  the  horrors  of 
homeless  destitution." 

"Indeed,  you  shall  stay  here,"  said  Diana, 
putting  her  white  hand  on  my  head.  "  You 
shall,"  repeated  Mary,  in  the  tone  of  undemon- 
strative sincerity,  which  seemed  natural  to  her. 
1  "  My  sisters,  you  see,  have  a  pleasure  in 
keeping  you,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  "as  they  would 
have  a  pleasure  in  keeping  and  cherishing  a 
half-frozen  bird,  some  wintry  wind  might  have 
driven  through  their  casement.  /  feel  more  in- 
clination to  put  you  in  the  way  of  keeping  your- 
self, and  shall  endeavor  to  do  so  ;  but  observe, 
my  sphere  is  narrow.  I  am  hut  the  incumbent 
of  a  poor  country  parish  ;  my  aid  rnust  be  of 
the  humblest  sort.  And  if  you  are  inclined  to 
despise  the  day  of  small  things,  seek  some  more 
etiicient  succor  than  such  as  I  can  offer." 

"  She  has  already  said  that  she  is  willing  to 
do  any  thing  honest  she  can  do,"  answered  Di- 
ana, for  me  ;  "  and  you  know,  St.  John,,  she  has 
DO  choice  of  helpers ;  she  is  forced  to  put  up 
with  such  crusty  people  as  you." 

"I  will  be  a  dressmaker;  I  will  be  a  plain- 
work-woman  ;  I  will  be  a  servant,  a  nurse-girl, 
if  I  can  be  no  better,"  I  answered. 

"  Right,"  said  Mr.  St.  John,  quite  coolly.  "  If 
such  is  your  spirit,  1  promise  to  aid  you — in  my 
own  time  and  way." 

He  now  resumed  the  book  with  which  he 
had  been  occupied  before  tea.  I  soon  with- 
drew ;  for  I  had  talked  as  much,  and  sat  up  as 
long,  as  my  present  strength  would  permit. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

The  more  I  knew  of  the  inmates  of  Moor 
House,  the  better  I  liked  them.     In  a  few  days 


I  had  30  far  recoTered  my  health  that  I  could 
sit  up  all  day,  and  walk  out  sometimes.  I  could 
join  with  Diana  and  Mary  in  all  their  occupa- 
tions ;  converse  with  them  as  much  as  they 
wished,  and  aid  them  when  and  where  they 
would  allow  me.  There  was  a  reviving  pleas- 
ure in  this  intercourse,  of  a  kind  now  tasted  by 
me  for  the  first  time — the  pleasure  arising  from 
perfect  congeniality  of  tastes,  sentiments,  and 
principles. 

I  liked  to  read  what  they  liked  to  read  ;  what 
they  enjoyed,  delighted  me ;  what  they  ap- 
proved, I  reverenced.  They  loved  their  se- 
questered home.  I,  too,  in  the  gray,  small, 
antique  structure,  with  its  low  roof,  its  latticed 
casements,  its  moldering  walls,  its  avenue  of 
aged  firs — all  grown  aslant  imder  the  stress  of 
mountain  winds  ;  its  garden,  dark  with  yew 
and  holy — and  where  no  flowers  but  of  the  hard- 
iest species  would  bloom — found  a  charm,  both, 
potent  and  permanent.  They  clung  to  the 
purple  moors  behind  and  around  their  dwelling 
— to  the  hollow  vale  into  which  the  pebbly  bri- 
dle-path leading  from  their  gate  descended ; 
and  which  wound  between  fern-banks  first,  and- 
then  among  a  few  of  the  wildest  little  pasture- 
fields  that  ever  bordered  a  wilderness  of  heath, 
or  gave  sustenance  to  a  flock  of  gray  moorland 
sheep,  with  their  little  mossy-faced  lambs ; 
they  clung  to  this  scene,  I  say,  with  a  perfect 
enthusiasm  of  attachment.  I  could  compre- 
hend the  feeling,  and  share  both  its  strength 
and  truth.  I  saw  the  fascination  of  the  local- 
ity. I  felt  the  consecration  of  its  loneliness  ; 
my  eye  feasted  on  the  outline  of  swell  and 
sweep — on  the  wild  coloring  communicated  to 
ridge  and  dell,  by  moss,  by  heath-bell,  by  flower- 
sprinkled  turf,  by  brilliant  bracken,  and  mellow 
granite  crag.  These  details  were  just  to  me 
what  they  were  to  them — so  many  pure  and 
sweet  sources  of  pleasure.  The  strong  blast 
and  the  soft  breeze  ;  the  rough  and  the  halcyon 
day ;  the  hours  of  suijrise  and  sunset ;  the 
moonlight  and  the  clouded  night,  developed  for 
me,  in  these  regions,  the  same  attraction  as  for 
them — wound  round  my  faculties  the  same 
spell  that  entranced  theirs. 

In-doors  we  agreed  equally  well.  They  were 
both  more  accomplished  and  better  read  than 
I  was  ;  but  with  eagerness  I  followed  in  the 
path  of  knowledge  they  had  trodden  before  me. 
I  devoured  the  books  they  lent  me  ;  then  it  was 
full  satisfaction  to  discuss  with  them  in  the 
evening  what  I  had  perused  during  the  day. 
Thought  fitted  thought ,  opinion  met  opinion  ; 
we  coincided,  in  short,  perfectly. 

"  If  in  our  trio  there  was  a  superior  and  a 
leader,  it  was  Diana.  Physically,  she  far  ex- 
celled me  ;  she  was  handsome  ;  she  was  vigor- 
ous. In  her  animal  t-piriis  there  was  an  af- 
fluence of  life  and  certainty  of  flow,  such  as 
excited  my  wonder,  while  it  baffled  my  com- 
prehension. I  could  talk  a  while  when  the  even- 
ing commenced;  but  the  first  gush  of  vivacity 
and  fluency  gone,  I  was  fain  to  sit  on  a  stool  at 
Diana's  feet,  to  rest  my  head  on  her  knee,  and 
listen  alternately  to  her  and  Mary;  while  they 
sounded  thoroughly  the  topic  on  which  I  had 
but  touched.  Diana  offered  to  teach  nic  Ger- 
man. I  liked  to  learn  of  her;  I  saw  the  part 
of  instructress  pleased  and  suited  her ;  that  of 
scholar  pleased  and  suited  me  no  less.     Our 


JANE  EYRE. 


135 


natures  dovetailed,  mutual  affection  of  the 
Btrongest  kind  was  the  result.  They  discover- 
ed I  could  draw;  their  pencils  and  color-hoxes 
were  immediately  at  my  service.  My  skill, 
greater  in  this  one  point  than  theirs,  surprised 
and  charmed  them.  Mary  would  sit  and  watch 
we  by  the  hour  together  ;  then  she  would  take 
lessons  ;  and  a  docile,  intelligent,  assiduous 
pupil  she  made.  Thus  occupied,  and  mutually 
entertained,  days  passed  like  hours,  and  weeks 
like  days. 

.  As  to  Mr.  St.  John,  the  intimacy  which  had 
arisen  so  naturally  and  rapidly  between  me 
and  his  sisters  did  not  extend  to  him.  One 
reason  of  the  distance  yet  observed  between  us 
was,  that  he  was  comparatively  seldom  at 
home  ;  a  large  proportion  of  his  time  appeared 
devoted  to  visiting  the  sick  and  poor  among 
the  scattered  population  of  his  parish. 
I--  No  weather  seemed  to  hinder  him  in  these  pas- 
toral excursions ;  rain  or  fair,  he  would,  when 
his  hours  of  morning  study  were  over,  take  his 
hat,  and,  followed  by  his  father's  old  pointer. 
Carlo,  go  out  on  his  mission  of  love  or  duty — 
I  scarcely  know  in  which  light  he  regarded  it 
Sometimes,  when  the  day  was  very  unfavora- 
ble, his  sisters  would  expostulate.  He  would 
then  say,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  more  solemn 
than  cheerful — 

"And  if  I  let  a  gust  of  wind  or  a  sprinkling 
of  rain  turn  me  aside  from  these  easy  tasks, 
■what  preparation  vi'ould  such  sloth  be  for  the 
future  I  propose  to  myself  1" 

Diana  and  Mary's  general  answer  to  this 
question  was  a  sigh,  and  some  minutes  of  ap- 
parently mournful  meditation. 

But  besides  his  frequent  absences,  there  was 
another  barrier  to  friendship  with  him  ;  he 
seemed  of  a  reserved,  an  abstracted,  and  even 
a  brooding  nature.  Zealous  in  his  ministerial 
labors,  blameless  in  his  life  and  habits,  he  yet 
did  not  appear  to  enjoy  that  mental  serenity, 
that  inward  content,  which  should  be  the  re- 
ward of  every  sincere  Christian  and  practical 
philanthropist.  Often,  of  an  evening,  when  he 
sat  at  the  window,  his  desk  and  papers  before 
him,  he  would  cease  reading  or  writing,  rest 
his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  deliver  himself  up  to 
I  know  not  what  course  of  thought ;  but  that  it 
■was  perturbed  and  exciting  might  be  seen  in 
the  frequent  flash  and  changeful  dilation  of  his 
eye. 

I  think,  moreover,  that  Nature  was  not  to 
him  that  treasury  of  delight  it  was  to  his  sis- 
ters. He  expressed  once,  and  but  once  in  my 
hearing,  a  strong  sense  of  the  rugged  charm  of 
the  hills,  and  an  inborn  aftection  for  the  dark 
roof  and  hoary  walls  he  called  his  home ;  but 
there  was  more  of  gloom  than  pleasure  in  the 
tone  and  words  in  which  the  sentiment  was 
nianifesied  ;  and  never  did  he  seem  to  roam 
the  moors  for  the  sake  of  their  soothing  silence 
— never  seek  out  or  dwell  upon  the  thousand 
peacefui  delighis  they  could  yield. 

Incommunicative  as  he  was,  some  time 
elapsed  before  I  had  an  opportunity  of  guaging 
his  mind.  I  first  got  an  idea  of  its  caliber 
■when  I  heard  him  preach  in  his  own  church  at 
Morton.  I  wish  I  could  describe  that  sermon  ; 
but  it  is  past  my  power.  I  can  not  even  ren- 
der faithfully  the  effect  it  produced  on  me. 
It  began  calm — and  indeed,  as  far  as  delivery 


and  pitch  oi  voice  went,  it  was  calm  to  the 
end  ;  an  earnestly  felt,  yet  strictly  restrained 
zeal  breathed  soon  in  the  distinct  accents,  and 
prompted  the  nervous  language.  This  grew 
to  force — compressed,  condensed,  controlled. 
The  heart  was  thrilled,  the  mind  astonished,  by 
the  power  of  the  preacher;  neither  were  soft- 
ened. Throughout  there  was  a  strange  bitter- 
ness ;  an  absence  of  consolatory  gentleness  ; 
stern  allusions  to  Calvinistic  doctrines — elec- 
tion, predestination,  reprobation  —  were  fre- 
quent ;  and  each  reference  to  these  points 
sounded  like  a  sentence  pronounced  for  doom. 
When  he  had  done,  instead  of  feeling  better, 
calmer,  more  enlightened  by  his  discourse,  I 
experienced  an  inexpressible  sadness ;  for  it 
seemed  to  me — I  know  not  whether  equally  so 
to  others — that  the  eloquence  to  which  I  had 
been  listening  had  sprung  from  a  depth  where 
lay  turbid  dregs  of  disappointment  —  where 
moved  troubling  impulses  of  insatiate  yearnings 
and  disquieting  aspirations.-  I  was  sure  St. 
John  Rivers  —  pure-lived,  conscientious,  zeal- 
ous as  he  was — had  not  yet  found  that  peace 
of  God  which  passeth  all  understanding  ;  he 
had  no  more  found  it,  I  thought,  than  had  I ; 
with  my  concealed  and  racking  regrets  for  my 
broken  idol  and  lost  elysium — regrets  to  which 
I  have  latterly  avoided  referring ;  but  which 
possessed  me  and  tyrannized  over  me  ruth- 
lessly. 

Meantime,  a  month  was  gone.  Diana  and 
Mary  were  soon  to  leave  Moor  House,  and  re- 
turn to  the  far  different  life  and  scene  which 
awaited  them,  as  governesses  in  a  large,  fash- 
ionable, south-of-England  city ;  where  each 
held  a  situation  in  families,  by  whose  wealthy 
and  haughty  members  they  were  regarded  only 
as  humble  dependents,  and  who  neither  knew 
nor  sought  one  of  their  innate  excellences,  and 
appreciated  only  their  acquired  accomplish- 
ments as  they  appreciated  the  skill  of  their 
cook,  or  the  taste  of  their  waiting-woman.  Mr. 
St.  John  had  said  nothing  to  me  yet  about  the 
employment  he  had  promised  to  obtain  for  me  ; 
yet  it  became  urgent  that  I  should  have  a  vo- 
cation of  some  kmd.  One  morning,  being  left 
alone  with  him  a  few  minutes  in  the  parlor,  I 
ventured  to  approach  the  window-recess  — 
which  his  table,  chair,  and  desk  consecrated  as 
a  kind  of  study — and  I  was  going  to  speak ; 
though  not  very  well  knawing  in  what  words 
to  frame  my  inquiry — for  it  is  at  all  times  diffi- 
cult to  break  the  ice  of  reserve  glassing  over 
such  natures  as  his — when  he  saved  me  the 
trouble,  by  being  the  first  to  commence  a  dia- 
logue. 

Looking  up  as  I  drew  near — "You  have  a 
question  to  ask  of  me  V'  he  said. 

"  Yes ;  I  wish  to  know  whether  you  have 
heard  of  any  service  I  can  offer  myself  to  un- 
dertake." 

"  I  found  or  devised  something  for  you  three 
weeks  ago ;  but  as  you  seemed  both  useful  and 
happy  here — as  my  sisters  had  evidently  be- 
come attached  to  you,  and  your  society  gave 
them  unusual  pleasure — I  deemed  it  inexpe- 
dient to  break  in  on  your  mutual  comfort  till 
their  approaching  departure  from  Marsh-End 
should  render  yours  necessary." 

"And  they  will  go  in  three  days  now?"  I 
said. 


136 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  Yes  ;  and  when  they  go,  I  shall  return  to 
the  parsonage  at  Morton  ;  Hannah  will  accom- 
pany me  ;  and  this  old  house  will  be  shut  up." 

I  waited.a  few  moments  expecting  he  would 
go  on  with  the  subject  first  broached  ;  but  he 
seemed  to  have  entered  another  train  of  reflec- 
tion ;  his  look  denoted  abstraction  from  me  and 
my  business.  I  was  obliged  to  recall  him  to  a 
theme  which  was  of  necessity  one  of  close  and 
anxious  interest  to  me. 

"  What  is  the  employment  you  had  in  view, 
Mr.  Rivers  1  I  hope  this  delay  will  not  have 
increased  the  difficulty  of  securing  it." 

"  Oh,  no  ;  since  it  is  an  employment  which 
depends  only  on  me  to  give,  and  you  to  accept." 

He  again  paused,  there  seemed  a  reluctance 
to  continue.  I  grew  impatient ;  a  restless 
movement  or  two,  and  an  eager  and  exacting 
glance  fastened  on  his  face,  conveyed  the  feel- 
ing to  him  as  effectually  as  words  could  have 
done,  and  with  less  trouble. 

"  You  need  be  in  no  hurry  to  hear,"  he  said; 
"  let  me  frankly  tell  you,  I  have  nothing  eligi- 
ble or  profitable  to  suggest.  Before  I  explain, 
recall,  if  you  please,  my  notice,  clearly  given, 
that  if  I  helped  you,  it  must  be  as  the  blind 
man  would  help  the  lame.  I  am  poor  ;  for  I 
find  that,  when  I  have  paid  my  father's  debts, 
all  the  patrimony  remaining  to  me  will  be  this 
crumbling  grange,  the  row  of  scathed  firs  be- 
hind, and  the  patch  of  moorish  soil,  with  the 
yew-trees  and  holly-bushes  in  front.  I  am  ob- 
scure ;  Rivers  is  an  old  name  ;  but  of  the  three 
sole  descendants  of  the  race,  two  earn  the  de- 
pendent's crust  among  strangers,  and  the  third 
considers  himself  an  alien  from  his  native  coun- 
try— not  only  for  life,  but  in  death.  '  Yes,  and 
deems,  and  is  bound  to  deem  himself  honored 
by  the  lot ;  and  aspires  but  after  the  day  when 
the  cross  of  separation  from  fleshly  ties  shall 
be  laid  on  his  shoulders,  and  when  the  Head  of 
that  church-militant  of  whose  humblest  mem- 
bers he  is  one,  shall  give  the  word,  '  Rise,  fol- 
low me !' " 

St.  John  said  these  words  as  he  pronounced 
his  sermons,  with  a  quiet,  deep  voice  ;  with  an 
unflushed  cheek,  and  a  coruscating  radiance 
of  glance.     He  resumed — 

"  And  since  I  am  myself  pooT'  and  obscure,  I 
can  offer  you  but  a  service  of  poverty  and 
obscurity.  You  m.ay  even  think  it  degrading — 
for  I  see  now  your  habits  have  been  what  the 
world  calls  refined  ;  your  tastes  lean  to  the 
ideal ;  and  your  society  has  at  least  been 
among  the  educated — but  I  consider  that  no 
service  degrades  which  can  better  our  race.  I 
hold  that  the  more  arid  and  unreclaimed  the 
soil  where  the  Christian  laborer's  task  of 
tillage  is  appointed  him— the  scantier  the  meed 
his  toil  brings — the  higher  the  honor.  His, 
under  such  circumstances,  is  the  destiny  of  the 
pioneer  ;  and  the  first  pioneer  of  the  Gospel 
were  the  Apostles — their  captain  was  Jesus, 
the  Redeemer  himself" 

".Welir'  I  said,  as  he  again  paused — "pro- 
ceed." 

He  looked  at  me  before  he  proceeded  ;  in- 
deed, he  seemed  leisurely  to  read  my  face,  as 
if  its  features  and  lines  were  characters  on  a 
page.  The  conclusions  drawn  from  this 
scrutiny  lie  partially  expressed  in  his  succeed- 
ing observations. 


"  I  believe  you  will  accept  the  post  I  offer 
you,"  said  he,  "and  hold  it  for  a  while;  not 
permanently  though,  any  more  than  I  could 
permanently  keep  the  narrow  and  narrowing — 
the  tranquil,  hidden  oflBce  of  English  country 
incumbent :  for  in  your  nature  is  an  alloy  as 
detrimental  to  repose  as  that  in  mine  ;  though 
of  a  different  kind." 

"  Do  explain  V  I  urged,  when  he  halted 
once.  more. 

"  I  will  ;  and  you  shall  hear  how  poor  the 
proposal  is — how  trivial — how  cramping.  1 
shall  not  stay  long  at  Morton,  now  that  my 
father  is  dead,  and  that  I  am  my  own  master. 
I  shall  leave  the  place  probably  in  the  course 
of  a  twelvemonth ;  but  while  I  do  stay,  I  will 
exert  myself  to  the  utmost  for  its  improve- 
ment. Morton,  when  I  came  to  it  two  years 
ago,  had  no  school ;  the  children  of  the  poor 
were  excluded  from  every  hope  of  progress. 
I  established  one  for  boys  ;  I  mean  now  to  open 
a  second  school  for  girls.  I  have  hired  a 
building  for  the  purpose,  with  a  cottage  of  two 
rooms  attached  to  it  for  the  mistress's  house. 
Her  salary  would  be  thirty  pounds  a  year  ;  her 
house  is  already  furnished,  very  simply,  but 
sufficiently,  by  the  kindness  of  a  lady.  Miss 
Oliver,  the  only  daughter  of  the  sole  rich  man 
in  my  parish — Mr.  Oliver,  the  proprietor  of  a 
needle-factory  and  iron-foundry  in  the  valley. 
The  same  lady  pays  for  the  education  and 
clothing  of  an  orphan  from  the  workhouse,  oa 
condition  that  she  shall  aid  the  mistress  in  such, 
menial  offices  connected  with  her  own  house 
and  the  school,  as  her  occupation  of  teaching 
will  prevent  her  having  time  to  discharge  ia 
person.     Will  you  be  this  mistress  1" 

He  put  the  question  rather  hurriedly;  he 
seemed  half  to  expect  an  indignant,  or  at  least 
a  disdainful  rejection  of  the  offer  ;  not  knowing 
all  my  thoughts  and  feelings,  though  guessing 
some,  he  could  not  tell  in  what  light  the  lot 
would  appear  to  me.  In  truth  it  was  humble 
— but  then  it  was  sheltered,  and  I  wanted  a 
safe  asylum  ;  it  was  plodding — but  then,  com- 
pared with  that  of  a  governess  in  a  rich  house, 
it  was  independent ;  and  the  fear  of  servitude 
with  strangers  entered  my  soul  like  iron ;  it 
was  not  ignoble — not  unworthy — not  mentally 
degrading.     I  made  my  decision. 

"I  thank  you  for  the  proposal,  Mr.  Rivers; 
and  I  accept  it  with  all  my  heart." 

"But  you  comprehend  mel"  he  said.  "It 
is  a  village  school ;  your  scholars  will  be  only 
poor  girls — cottagers'  children — at  the  best, 
farmers'  daughters.  Knitting,  sewing,  reading, 
writing,  ciphering,  will  be  all  you  will  have  to 
teach.  What  will  you  do  with  your  accom- 
plishments? What  with  the  largest  portion  of 
your  mind — sentiments — tastes  !" 

"  Save  them  till  they  are  wanted.  They  will 
keep." 

"  You  know  what  you  undertake,  then  V 

"I  do." 

He  now  smiled  ;  and  not  a  bitter  or  a  sad 
smile  ;  but  one  well  pleased  and  deeply 
gratified. 

"  And  when  will  you  commence  the  exercise 
of  your  function  V 

"  I  will  go  to  my  house  to-morrow ;  and 
open  the  school,  if  you  like,  next  week." 

"  Very  well ;  so  be  it." 


JANE  EYRE. 


137 


He  rose  and  walked  through  the  room. 
Standing  still,  he  again  looked  at  me.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"  What  do  you  disapprove  of,  Mr.  Rivers?" 
I  asked. 

"  You  will  not  stay  at  Morton  long  ;  no,  no  1" 

"  AVhy  V  What  is  your  reason  for  saying 
sol" 

"  I  read  it  in  your  eye ;  it  is  not  of  that 
description  which  promises  the  maintenance  of 
an  §ven  tenor  in  life." 

"  I  am  not  ambitious." 

He  started  at  the  word  "  ambitious."  He 
repeated,  "JN'o.  What  made  you  think  of  am- 
bition !  Who  is  ambitious  1  I  know  I  am  ; 
but  how  did  you  find  it  out  1" 

"  I  was  speaking  of  myself " 

"  Well,  if  you  are  not  ambitious,  you  are  — " 
He  paused. 

"  What  1" 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  impassioned  ;  but  per- 
haps you  would  have  misunderstood  the  word, 
and  been  displeased.  I  mean,  that  human 
affections  and  sympathies  have  a  most  power- 
ful hold  on  you.  I  am  sure  you  can  not  long  be 
content  to  pass  your  leisure  in  solitude;  and 
to  devote  your  working  hours  to  a  monoto- 
nous labor  wholly  void  of  stimulus,  any  more 
than  I  can  be  content,"  he  added,  with  em- 
phasis, "  to  live  here  buried  in  morass,  pent  in 
■with  mountain — my  nature,  that  God  gave  me, 
contravened  ;  my  faculties.  Heaven-bestowed, 
paralyzed — made  useless.  You  hear  now  how 
I  contradict  myself  I,  who  preached  content- 
ment with  a  humble  lot,  and  justified  the  voca- 
tion even  of  hewers  of  wood,  and  drawers  of 
water,  in  God's  service — I,  his  ordained  minis- 
ter, almost  rave  in  my  restlessness.  Well, 
propensities  and  principles  must  be  reconciled 
by  some  means." 

He  left  the  room.  In  this  brief  hour  I  had 
learned  more  of  him  tlvan  in  the  whole  previous 
month  ;  yet  still  he  puzzled  me. 

Diana  and  Mary  Rivers  became  more  sad 
and  silent  as  the  day  approached  for  leaving 
their  brother  and  their  home.  They  both  tried 
to  appear  as  usual ;  but  the  sorrow  they  had 
to  struggle  against  was  one  that  could  not  be 
entirely  conquered  or  concealed.  Diana  in- 
timated that  this  would  be  a  different  parting 
from  any  they  had  ever  yet  known.  It  would 
probably,  as  far  as  St.  John  was  concerned,  be 
a  parting  for  years — it  might  be  a  parting  for 
life. 

"  He  will  sacrifice  all  to  his  long-framed  re- 
solves," she  said  ;  "  natural  affection  and  feel- 
ings more  patent  still.  St.  John  looks  quiet, 
Jane,  but  he  liides  a  fever  in  his  vitals.  You 
■would  think  him  gentle,  yet  in  some  things  he 
is  inexorable  as  death  ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is, 
my  conscience  will  hardly  permit  movto  dis- 
suade him  from  his  severe  decision  ;  certainly, 
I  can  not  for  a  moment  blame  him  for  it.  It  is 
light,  noble.  Christian  ;  yet  it  breaks  my  heart." 
^  And  the  tears  gushed  to  her  fine  eyes.  Mary 
bent  her  head  low  over  her  work. 

"  We  are  now  without  father ;  we  shall 
seen  be  without  home  and  brother,"  she 
murmured.  > 

At  that  moment  a  little  accident  supervened, 
■which  seemed  decreed  by  fate,  purposely  to 
prove  the  truth  of  the  adage,  that  "misfortunes 


never  come  singly  ;"  and  to  add  to  their  dis- 
tresses the  vexing  one  of  the  slip  between  the 
cup  and  the  lip.  •  St.  Joim  passed  the  window 
reading  a  letter.     He  entered.  ^ 

"  Our  uncle  John  is  dead,"  said  he. 

Both  the  sisters  seemed  struck  :  not  shocked 
or  appalled  :  the  tidings  appeared  in  their  eyes 
rather  momentous  than  afflicting. 

"  Dead  V  repeated  Diana. 

"Yes." 

Sheriveted  a  searching  gaze  on  her  brother's 
face.  "  And  what  then"!"  she  demanded,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"What  then,  Di!"  he  replied,  maintaining 
a  marble  immobility  of  feature.  "What,  then  1 
Why — nothing.     Read." 

He  threw  a  letter  into  her  lap.  She  glanced 
over  it,  and  handed  it  to  Mary.  Mary  perused 
it  in  silence,  and  returned  it  to  her  brother. 
All  three  looked  at  each  other,  and  all  three 
smiled — a  dreary,  pensive  smile  enough. 

"  Amen  !  We  can  yet  live,"  said  Diana,  at 
last. 

"  At  any  rate,  it  makes  us  no  worse  off  than 
we  were  before,"  remarked  Mary. 

"  Only  it  forces  rather  strongly  on  the  mind 
the  picture  of  what  might  have  been,"  said  Mr. 
Rivers ;  "  and  contrasts  it  somewhat  too  vivid- 
ly with  what  is." 

He  folded  the  letter,  locked  it  in  his  desk, 
and  then  went  out. 

For  some  minutes  no  one  spoke.  Diana 
then  turned  to  me. 

"  Jane,  you  will  wonder  at  us  and  our  mys- 
teries," she  said  ;  "  and  think  us  hard-hearted 
beings  not  to  be  more  moved  at  the  death  of  so 
near  a  relation  as  an  uncle  ;  but  we  have  nev- 
er seen  him  or  known  him.  He  was  my  moth- 
er's brother.  My  father  and  he  quarreled 
long  ago.  It  was  by  his  advice  that  my  father 
risked  most  of  his  property  in  the  speculation 
that  ruined  him.  Mutual  recriminations  passed 
between  them  :  they  parted  in  anger,  and  were 
never  reconciled.  My  uncle  engaged  after- 
ward in  more  prosperous  undertakings  :  it  ap- 
pears he  realized  a  fortune  of  twenty  thousand 
pounds.  He  was  never  married,  and  had  no 
near  kindred  but  ourselves,  and  one  other  per- 
son, not  more  closely  related  than  we.  My 
father  always  cherished  the  idea  that  he  would 
atone  for  his  error  by  leaving  his  possessions 
to  us ;  that  letter  informs  us  that  he  has  be- 
queathed every  penny  to  the  other  relation, 
with  the  exception  of  thirty  guineas,  to  be  di- 
vided between  St.  John,  Diana,  and  Mary  Riv- 
ers, for  the  purchase  of  three  mourning  rings. 
He  had  a  right,  of  course,  to  do  as  he  pleased  ; 
and  yet  a  momentary  damp  is  cast  on  the  spir- 
its by  the  receipt  of  such  news.'  Mar^  and  I 
would  have  esteemed  ourselves  rich  with  a 
thousand  pounds  each  ;  and  to  St.  John  such  a 
sum  would  have  been  valuable,  for  the  good  it 
would  have  enabled  him  to  do." 

This  explanation  given,  the  subject  was  drop- 
ped, and  no  further  reference  made  to  it,  by 
either  Mr.  Rivers  or  his  sistefs.  The  next  day, 
I  left  Marsh-End  for  Morton.  The  day  after, 
Diana  and  Mary  quitted  it  for  distant  B — .  In 
a  week,  Mr.  Rivers  and  Hannah  repaired  to 
the  parsonage  ;  and  so  the  old  grange  was 
abandoned. 


138 


JANE  EYRE. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


Mv  home,  then — when  I  at  last  find  a  home 

. is  a  cottage  ;  a  little  room  with  white-washed 

•walls  and  a  sanded  floor,  containing  four 
painted  chairs  and  a  table,  a  clock,  a  cupboard, 
with  two  or  three  plates  and  dishes,  and  a  set 
of  tea-things  in  delf.  Above,  a  chamber  of  the 
same  dimensions  as  the  kitchen,  with  a  deal 
bedstead  and  chest  of  drawers ;  small,  yet  too 
large  to  be  filled  with  my  scanty  wardrobe ; 
though  the  kindness  of  my  gentle  and  generous 
friends  has  increased  that,  by  a  modest  stock 
of  such  things  as  are  necessary. 

It  is  evening.  I  have  dismissed,  with  the 
fee  of  an  orange,  the  little  orphan  who  serves 
me  as  a  handmaid.  I  am  sitting  alone  on  the 
hearth.  This  morning  the  village  school 
opened.  I  had  twenty  scholars.  But  three  of 
the  number  can  read  ;  none  write  or  cipher. 
Several  knit,  and  a  few  sew  a  little.  They 
speak  with  the  broadest  accent  of  the  district. 
At  present,  they  and  I  have  a  difficulty  in  un- 
derstanding each  other's  language.  Some  of 
them  are  unmannered,  rough,  intractable,  as 
well  as  ignorant ;  but  others  are  docile,  have  a 
■wish  to  learn,  and  evince  a  disposition  that 
pleases  me.  I  must  not  forget  that  these 
coarsely-clad  little  peasants  are  of  flesh  and 
blood  as  good  as  the  scions  of  gen^tlest  genealo- 
gy, and  that  the  germs  of  native  excellence,  re- 
finement, intelligence,  kind  feeling,  are  as  like- 
ly to  exist  in  their  hearts  as  in  those  of  the 
best-born.  My  duly  will  be  to  develop  these 
germs ;  surely  I  shall  find  some  happiness 
in  discharging  that  office.  Much  enjoyment  I 
do  not  expect  in  the  life  opening  before  me  ; 
yet  it  will,  doubtless,  if  I  regulate  my  mind, 
and  exert  my  powers  as  I  ought,  yield  me 
enough  to  live  on  from  day  to  day. 

Was  I  very  gleeful,  settled,  content,  during  the 
hours  I  passed  in  yonder  bare,  humble  school- 
room this  morning  and  afternoon  1  Not  to  de- 
ceive myself,  I  must  reply — No  ;  I  felt  desolate 
to  a  degree.  I  felt — yes,  idiot  that  I  am — I  felt 
degraded.  I  doubted  I  had  taken  a  step  which 
sunk  instead  of  raising  me  in  the  scale  of  social 
existence.  I  was  weakly  dismayed  at  the  ig- 
norance, the  poverty,  the  coarseness  of  all  I 
heard  and  saw  round  me.  But  let  me  not  hate 
and  despise  myself  too  much  for  these  feelings; 
I  know  them  to  be  wrong — that  is  a  great  step 
gained  ;  I  shall  strive  to  overcome  them.  To- 
morrow, I  trust,  I  shall  get  the  better  of  them 
partially  ;  and  in  a  few  weeks,  perhaps,  they 
will  be  quite  subdued.  In  a  few  months,  it  is 
possible,  the  happiness  of  seeing  progress,  and 
a  change  for  the  better  in  my  scholars,  may 
substitute  gratification  for  disgust. 

Meantime,  let  me  ask  rnysclf  one  question — 
"Which  is  better^  To  have  surrendered  to 
temptation  ;  listened  to  passion  ;  made  no 
painful  effort — no  struggle :  but  to  have  sunk 
down  in  the  silken  snare ;  fallen  on  the  flow- 
ers covering  it;  wakened  in  a  southern  clime, 
among  the  luxuries  of  a  pleasure-villa  ;  to  have 
been  now  living  in  France,  Mr.  Rochester's 
mistress;  delirious  with  his  love  half  my  time 
— for  he  would— oh,  yes,  he  would  have  loved 
me  well  for  a  while.  He  did  love  me — no  one 
will  ever  love  me  so  again.  I  shall  never 
more  know  the  sweet  homage  given  to  beauty, 


youth,  and  graee — for  never  to  any  else  shall  I 
seem  to  possess  these  charms.  He  was  fond 
and  proud  of  me — it  is  what  no  man  besides 
wdl  ever  be.  But  where  am  I  wandering,  and 
what  am  I  saying,  and,  above  all,  feeling  1 
Whether  it  is  better,  I  ask,  to  be  a  slave  in  a 
fool's  paradise  at  Marseilles — fevered  with  de- 
lusive bliss  one  hour — suflTocating  v,'ilh  the  bit- 
terest tears  of  remorse  and  shame  the  next — 
or  to  be  a  village  schoolmistress,  free  and  hon-  , 
est,  in  a  breezy  mountain  nook  in  the  healthy 
heart  of  England? 

Yes :  I  feel  now  that  1  was  right  when  I  ad- 
hered to  principle  and  law,  and  scotned  and 
crushed  the  insane  promptings  of  a  frenzied 
moment.  God  directed  me  to  a  correct  choice  : 
I  thank  His  providence  for  the  guidance  ! 

Having  brought  my  eventide  musings  to  this 
point,  I  rose,  went  to  my  door,  and  looked  at 
the  sunset  of  the  harvest-day,  and  at  the  quiet 
fields  before  my  cottage ;  which,  with  the  school, 
was  distant  half -a  mile  from  the  village.  The 
birds  were  singing  their  last  strains — 

"  The  air  was  mild ;  the  dew  was  balm." 

While  I  looked,  I  thought  myself  happy,  and 
was  surprised  to  find  myself  ere  long  weeping 
— and  why"!  For  the  doom  which  had  reft  me 
from  adhesion  to  my  master :  for  him  I  was 
no  more  to  see ;  for  the  desperate  grief  and 
fatal  fury — consequences  of  my  departupe — 
which  might  now,  perhaps,  be  dragging  hini 
from  the  path  of  right,  too  far  to  leave  hope  of 
ultimate  restoration  thither.  At  this  thought,  I 
turned  my  face  aside  from  the  lovely  sky  of  eve 
and  lonely  vale  of  Morton — I  say  lonily,  for  in 
that  bend  of  it  visible  to  me,  there  was  no  build- 
ing apparent  save  the  church  and  the  parsonage, 
half-hid  in  trees  ;  and,  quite  at  the  extremity, 
the  roof  of  Vale  Hall,  where  the  rich  Mr.  Oliver 
and  his  daughter  lived.  I  hid  my  eyes,  and 
leaned  my  tiead  against  the  stone  frame  of  my 
door,  but  soon  a  slight  noise  near  the  wicket 
which  shut  in  my  tiny  garden  from  the  meadow 
beyond  it,  made  me  look  up.  A  dog — old  Carlo, 
Mr.  Rivers's  pointer,  as  I  saw  in  a  moment — 
was  pushing  the  gate  with  his  nose,  and  St. 
John  himself  leaned  upon  it  with  folded  arms ; 
his  brow  knit,  his  gaze,  grave  almost  lo  dis- 
pleasure, fixed  on  me.     I  asked  him  to  come  in. 

"  No,  I  can  not  stay  ;  I  have  only  brought 
you  a  little  parcel  my  sisters  left  for  you.  I 
think  it  contains  a  color-box,  pencils,  and  pa- 
per." 

I  approached  to  take  it ;  a  welcome  gift  it 
was.  He  examined  my  face,  I  thought,  with 
austerity,  as  I  came  near  :  the  traces  of  tears 
were  doubtless  very  visible  upon  it. 

"  Have  you  found  your  first  day's  work  harder 
than  you  expected?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no  !  f)n  the  contrary,  I  think  in  time 
I  sliall  get  on  with  my  scholars  very  well." 

"  But  perhaps  your  accommodations — your 
cottage  —  your  furniture  —  have  disappointed 
your  expectations  1  They  are,  in  truth,  scanty 
enough  ;  but" — I  interrupted  : 

"  My  cottage  is  clean  and  weather-proof;  my 
furniture  sufficient  and  commodious.  All  I  see 
has  made  me  thankful,  not  despondent.  I  am 
not  absolutely  such  a  fool  and  sensualist  as  to 
regret  the  absence  of  a  carpet,  a  sofa,  and  silver 
plate :  besides,  five  weeks  ago  I  had  nothing — 


JANE  EYRE. 


139 


I  was  an  outcast,  a  beggar,  a  vagrant ;  now  I 
have  acquaintance,  a  home,  a  business.  I  won- 
der at  the  goodness  of  God  ;  the  generosity  of 
my  friends  ;  the  bounty  of  my  lot.  I  do  not 
repine." 

"  But  you  feel  solitude  an  oppression  ''.  The 
little  house  there  behind  you  is  rather  dark  and 
empty?" 

"  I  have  hardly  had  time  yet  to  enjoy  a  sense 
of  tranquillity,  much  less  to  grow  impatient 
under  one  of  loneliness." 

"  Very  well ;  I  hope  you  feel  the  content  you 
express ;  at  any  rate,  your  good  sense  will  tell 
you  that  it  is  too  soon  yet  to  yield  to  the  vacil- 
lating fears  of  Lot's  wife.  What  you  had  left 
before  I  saw  you,  of  course  I  do  not  know  ;  but 
I  counsel  you  to  resist,  firmly,  every  temptation 
which  would  incline  you  to  look  back ;  pursue 
your  present  career  steadily,  for  some  months 
at  least." 

"  It  is  what  I  mean  to  do,"  I  answered.  St. 
John  continued — 

"  It  is  hard  work  to  control  the  workings  of 
inclination,  and  turn  the  bent  of  nature  ;  but 
that  it  may  be  done,  I  know  from  experience. 
God  has  given  us,  in  a  measure,  the  power  to 
make  our  own  fate  ;  and  when  our  energies 
seem  to  demand  a  sustenance  they  can  not  get 
— when  our  will  strains  after  a  path  we  may 
not  follow — we  need  neither  starve  from  inani- 
tion, nor  stand  still  in  despair :  we  have  but  to 
seek  another  nourishment  for  the  mind,  as 
strong  as  the  forbidden  food  it  longed  to  taste 
— and  perhaps  purer ;  and  to  hew  out  for  the 
adventurous  foot  a  road  as  direct  and. broad  as 
the  one  Fortune  has  blocked  up  against  us,  if 
rougher  than  it. 

"  A  year  ago,  I  was  myself  intensely  misera- 
ble, because  I  thought  I  had  made  a  nriistake 
in  entering  the  ministry ;  its  uniform  duties 
wearied  me  to  death.  I  burned  for  the  more 
active  life  of  the  world — for  the  more  exciting 
toils  of  a  literary  career — for  the  destiny  of  an 
artist,  author,  orator ;  any  thing  rather  than 
that  of  a  priest ;  yes,  the  heart  of  a  politician, 
of  a  soldier,  of  a  votary  of  glory,  a  lover  of  re- 
nown, a  luster  after  power,  beat  under  my 
curate's  surplice.  I  considered  my  life  was  so 
wretched,  it  must  be  changed  or  I  must  die. 
After  a  season  of  darkness  and  struggling,  light 
broke  and  relief  fell :  my  cramped  existence  all 
at  once  spread  out  to  a  plain  without  bounds — 
my  powers  heard  a  call  from  Heaven  to  rise, 
gather  their  full  strength,  spread  their  wings 
and  mount  beyond  ken.  God  had  an  errand  for 
me ;  to  bear  which  afar,  to  deliver  it  well,  skill 
and  strength,  courage  and  eloquence,  the  best 
qualifications  of  soldier,  statesman,  and  orator, 
were  all  needed ;  for  these  all  center  in  the 
good  missionary. 

"A  missionary  I  resolved  to  be.  From  that 
moment  my  state  of  mind  changed  :  the  fetters 
dissolved  and  dropped  from  every  faculty,  leav- 
ing nothing  of  bondage  but  its  galling  soreness 
— which  time  only  can  heal.  My  father,  in- 
deed, opposed  the  determination  ;  but' since  his 
death,  I  have  not  a  legitimate  obstacle  to  con- 
tend with  ;  some  afTairs  settled,  a  successor  for 
Morton  provided,  an  entanglement  or  two  of 
the  feelings  broken  through  or  cut  asunder — a 
last  conflict  with  human  weakness,  in  which  I 
know  I  shall  overcome,  because  I  have  vowed 


that  I  will  overcome — and  I  leave  Europe  for 
the  East." 

He  said  this  in  hispeculiar,  subdued  yet  em- 
phatic voice ;  looking,  when  he  had  ceased 
speaking,  not  at  me,  but  at  the  setting  sun,  at 
which  I  looked  too.  Both  he  and  I  had  our 
backs  toward  the  path  leading  up  the  field  to 
the  wicket.  We  had  heard  no  step  on  that 
grass-grown  track  ;  the  water  running  in  the 
vale  was  the  one  lulling  sound  of  the  hour  and 
scene  ;  we  might  well  then  start,  when  a  gay 
voice,  sweet  as  a  silver  bell,  exclaimed — 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Rivers.  And  good  evea- 
ing,  old  Carlo.  Your  dog  is  quicker  to  recog- 
nize his  friends  than  you  are,  sir  ;  he  pricked 
his  ears  and  wagged  his  tail  when  I  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  field,  and  you  have  your  back 
toward  me  now." 

It  was  true.  Though  Mr.  Rivers  had  started 
at  the  first  of  those  musical  accents,  as  if  a 
thunderbolt  had  split  a  cloud  over  his  head,  he 
stood  yet,  at  the  close  of  the  sentence,  in  the 
same  attitude  in  which  the  speaker  had  sur- 
prised him:  his  arm  resting  on  the  gate,  hist 
face  directed  toward  the  west.  He  turned  at'f 
last,  with  measured  deliberation.  A  vision,  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  had  risen  at  its  side.  There 
appeaired,  within  three  feet  of  him,  a  form  clad 
in  pure  white — a  youthful,  graceful  form  :  full, 
yet  fine  in  contour  ;  and  when,  after  bending  to 
caress  Carlo,  it  lifted  up  its  head,  and  threw 
back  a  long  veil,  there  bloomed  under  his  glance 
a  face  of  perfect  beauty.  Perfect  beauty  is  a 
strong  expression  ;  but  I  do  not  retrace  or 
qualify  it ;  as  sweet  features  as  ever  the  tem- 
perate clime  of  Albion  molded  ;  as  pure  hues 
of  rose  and  lily  as  ever  her  humid  gales  and 
vapory  skies  generated  and  screened,  justified, 
in  this  instance,  the  term.  No  charm  was 
wanting,  no  defect  was  perceptible  ;  the  young 
girl  had  regular  and  delicate  lineaments  ;  eyes 
shaped  and  colored  as  we  see  them  in  lovely 
pictures,  large,  and  dark,  and  full ;  the  long  and 
shadowy  eyelash  which  encircles  a  fine  eye 
with  so  soft  a  fascination  ;  the  penciled  brow 
which  gives  such  clearness ;  the  white,  smooth 
forehead,  which  adds  such  repose  to  the  livelier; 
beauties  of  tint  and  ray  ;  the  cheek,  oval,  fresh, 
and  smooth  ;  the  lips  fresh  too,  ruddy,  healthy, 
sweetly  formed  ;  the  even  and  gleaming  teeth 
without  flaw  ;  the  small,  dimpled  chin  ;  the 
ornament  of  rich,  plenteous  tresses — ail  advan- 
tages, in  short,  which,  combined,  realize  the 
ideal  of  beauty,  were  fully  hers.  I  wondered, 
as  I  looked  at  this  fair  creature  :  I  admired  her 
with  my  whole  heart.  Nature  had  surely  formed 
her  in  a  partial  mood  ;  and  forgetting  her  usual 
stinted  step-mother  dole  of  gifts,  had  endowed 
tliis,  her  darling,  with  a  granddame's  bounty. 

'^What  did  St.  John  Rivers  think  of  this 
earthly  angel  1  I  naturally  asked  myself  that 
question  as  I  saw  him  turn  to  her  and  look  at 
her;  and,  as  naturally,  I  sought  the  answer  to 
the  inquiry  in  his  countenance.  He  had  already 
withdrawn  hiG  eye  from  the  Peri,  and  was  look- 
ing at  a  humble  tuft  of  daisies  which  grew  by 
the  wicket. 

"A  lovely  evening;  but  late  for  you  to  ba 
out  alone,"  he  said,  as  he  crushed  the  snowy 
heads  of  the  closed  flowers  with  his  foot. 

"  Ob,   I  only  came  home  from   S (she 

mentioned  the  name  of  a  large  town  some  tvven      ; 


140 


JANE  EYRE. 


ty  miles  distant)  this  afternoon.  Papa  told  me 
you  had  opened  your  school,  and  that  the  new 
mistress  was  corne  ;  and  so  I  put  on  ray  bonnet 
after  tea,  and  ran  up  the  valley  to  see  her  ;  this 
is  she  V  pointing  to  me. 

"  It  is,"  said  St.  John. 

"Do  yon  think  you  shall  like  Morton'?"  she 
asked  of  me,  with  a  direct  and  naive  simplici- 
ty of  tone  and  manner,  pleasing,  if  childlike. 

"  I  hope  I  shall.  I  have  many  inducements 
to  do  .so." 

"  Did  you  find  your  scholars  as  attentive  as 
you  expected?" 

"Quite." 

"  Do  you  like  your  house'?" 

"  Very  much." 

" Have  I  furnished  it  nicely'?" 

"Very  nicely,  indeed." 

"And  made  a  good  choice  of  an  attendant 
for  you  in  Alice  AVoodl" 
;  "You  have,  indeed.  She  is  teachable  and 
handy."  (This,  then,  I  thought,  is  Miss  Oliver, 
the  heiress,  favored,  it  seems,  in  the  gifts  of 
fortune,  as  well  as  in  those  of  nature  !  What 
happy  combination  of  the  planets  presided  over 
her  birth,  I  wonder  1) 

"  I  shall  come  up  and  help  you  to  teach 
sometimes,"  she  added.  "  It  will  be  a  change 
for  me  to  visit  you  now  and  then  ;  and  I  like  a 
change.     Mr.  Rivers,  I  have  been  so  gay  during 

my  stay  at  S .     Last  night,  or  rather  this 

morning,  I  was  dancing  till  tu'o  o'clock.  The 
— th  regiment  are  stationed  there,  since  the 
riots  ;  and  the  officers  are  the  most  agreeable 
men  in  the  world  :  they  put  all  our  young  knife- 
grinders  and  scissor-merchants  to  shame." 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Mr.  St.  John's  under 
lip  protruded,  and  his  upper  lip  curled  a  mo- 
ment. His  mouth  certainly  looked  a  good 
deal  compressed,  and  the  lower  part  of  his  face 
•unusually  stern  and  square,  as  the  laughing 
girl  gave  him  this  information.  He  lifted  his 
gaze,  too,  from  the  daisies,  and  turned  it  on 
her.  An  unsmiling,  a  searching,  a  meaning 
gaze  it  was.  She  answered  it  with  a  second 
laugh  ;  and  laughter  well  became  her  youth, 
her  roses,  her  dimples,  her  bright  eyes. 

As  he  stood,  mute  and  grave,  she  again  fell  to 
caressing  Carlo.  "  Poor  Carlo  loves  me,"  said 
she  "  He  is  not  stern  and  distant  to  his  friends  ; 
and  if  he  could  speak,  he  would  not  be  silent." 

As  she  patted  the  dog's  head,  bending  with 
native  grace  before  his  young  and  austere 
master,  I  saw  a  glow  rise  to  that  master's 
face.  I  saw  his  solemn  eye  melt  with  suclden 
fire,  and  flicker  with  resistless  motion.  Flush- 
ed and  kindled  thus,  he  looked  nearly  as  beau- 
tiful for  a  man  as  she  for  a  woman.  His 
chest  heaved  once,  as  if  his  large  heart,  weary 
of  despotic  constriction,  had  expanded,  despite 
the  Will,  and  made  a  vigorous  bound  for  the  at- 
tainment of  liberty.  But  he  curbed  it,  I  think, 
as  a  resolute  rider  would  a  curb  a  rearing  steed. 
He  responded  neither  by  word  nor  movement  to 
the  gentle  advances  made  him. 

"Papa  says  you  never  come  to  see  us  now," 
continued  Miss  Oliver,  looking  up.  "You  are 
quite  a  stranger  at  Vale  Hall.  He  is  alone  this 
evening,  and  not  very  well ;  will  you  return 
•with  mo  and  visit  him?" 

"Ir  IS  not  a  seasonable  hour  to  intrude  on 
Mr.  Oliver,"  answered  St.  John. 


"  Not  a  seasonable  hour !  But  I  declare  it 
is.  It  is  just  the  hour  when  papa  most  wants 
company ;  when  the  works  are  closed,  and  he 
has  no  business  to  occupy  him.  Now,  Mr. 
Rivers,  do  come.  Why  are  you  so  very  shy, 
and  so  very  somber  ■?"  She  filled  up  the  hiatus 
his  silence  left  by  a  reply  of  her  own. 

"  I  forgot,",she  exclaimed,  shaking  her  beau- 
tiful curled  head,  as  if  shocked  at  herself  "  I 
am  so  giddy  and  thoughtless  !  Do  excuse  me. 
It  had  slipped  my  memory  that  you  have  good 
reasons  to  be  indisposed  for  joining  in  my  chat- 
ter. Diana  and  Mary  have  left  you,  and  Moor 
House  is  shut  up,  and  you  are  so  lonely.  I  am 
sure  I  pity  you.     Do  come  and  see  papa." 

"  Nat  to-night,  Miss  Rosamond,  not  to-night." 

Mr.  St.  John  spoke  almost  like  an  automaton ; 
himself  only  knew  the  effort  it  cost  him  thus  to 
refuse. 

"  Well,  if  you  are  so  obstinate,  I  will  leave 
you  ;  for  I  dare  not  stay  any  longer ;  the  dew 
begins  to  fall.     Good-evening  !" 

She  held  out  her  hand.  He  just  touched  it. 
"  Good-evening  I"  he  repeated,  in  a  voice  lo"w 
and  hollow  as  an  echo.  She  turned  ;  but  in  a 
moment  returned. 

"  Are  you  well  1"  she  asked.  Well  might  she 
put  the  question  :  his  face  was  blanched  as  her 
gown. 

"  Quite  well,"  he  enunciated ;  and,  with  a 
bow,  he  left  the  gate.  She  went  one  way  ;  he 
another.  She  turned  twice  to  gaze  after  him, 
as  she  tripped  fairylike  down  the  field  :  he,  as 
he  strode  firmly  across,  never  turned  at  all. 

This  spectacle  of  another's  suflfering  and 
sacrifices  wrapped  my  thoughts  from  exclusive 
meditation  on  my  own.  Diana  Rivers  had 
designated  her  brother  "  inexorable  as  death." 
She  had  not  exaggerated. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

I  CONTINUED  the  labors  of  the  village  school 
as  actively  and  faithfully  as  I  could.     It  was 
truly  hard  work  at  first.     Some  time  elapsed, 
before,  with  all  my  efforts,  I  could  comprehend 
my  scholars  and  their  nature.   Wholly  untaught, 
with  faculties  quite  torpid,  they  seemed  to  me 
hopelessly  dull ;  and,  at  first  sight,  all  dull  alike  ; 
out  I  soon  found  I  was  mistaken.     There  was 
a  difference  among  them  as  among  the  educa- 
ted ;  and  when  I  got  to  know  them,  and  they 
me,  this    difference   rapidly   developed   itself. 
Their  amazement  at  me,  my  language,  my  rules 
and  ways,  once  subsided,  I  found  some  of  these 
heavy-looking,  gaping  rustics,  wake   up   into 
sharp-witted    girls    enough.       Many    showed 
themselves  obliging,  and  amiable,  too  ;   and  I 
discovered  among  them  not  a  few  examples  of 
natural  politeness  and  innate  self-respect,  as 
well  as  of  excellent  capacity,  that  won  both 
my  good  will  and  my  admiration.     These  soon 
took  a  pleasure  in  doing  their  work  well— ia 
keeping  their  persons  neat — in  learning  their 
tasks  regularly — in  acquiring  quiet  and  orderly 
manners.     The  rapidity  of  their  progress,  ia 
some  instances,  was  even  surprising ;  and  an 
honest  and  happy  pride  I  took  in  it ;  besides,  I 
began  personally  to  like  some  of  the  best  girls, 
and  they  liked  me.     I  bad  among  my  scholars 
several    farmers'    daughters— young    women 


JANE  EYRE. 


141 


grown,  almost.  These  could  already  read, 
■write,  and  sew  ;  and  to  them  I  taught  the  ele- 
ments of  grammar,  geography,  history,  and  the 
finer  kinds  of  needlework.  I  found  estimable 
characters  among  them — characters  jlesirous 
of  information,  and  disposed  for  improvement — 
with  whom  I  passed  many  a  pleasant  evening 
hour  in  their  own  homes.  Their  parents  then 
(the  farmer  and  his  wife)  loaded  mc  with  atten- 
tions. There  was  an  enjoyment  in  accepting 
their  simple  kindness,  and  iu  repaying  it  by  a 
consideration — a  scrupulous  regard  to  their 
feelings — to  which  they  were  not,  perhaps,  at 
all  times  accustomed,  and  which  both  charmed 
and  benefited  them  ;  because,  while  it  elevated 
them  in  their  own  eyes,  it  made  them  emulous 
to  merit  the  deferential  treatment  they  re- 
ceived. 

I  felt  I  became  a  favorite  in  the  neighbor- 
hood. Whenever  I  went  out,  I  heard  on  all 
sides  cordial  salutations,  and  was  welcomed 
with  friendly  smiles.  To  live  amid  general  re- 
gard, though  it  be  but  the  regard  of  working- 
people,  is  like  "  sittiqg  in  sunshine,  calm  and 
sweet ;"  serene  inward  feelings  bud  and  bloom 
under  the  ray.  At  this  period  of  rny  life,  my 
heart  far  oftener  swelled  with  thankfulness  than 
sunk  with  dejection ;  and  yet,  reader,  to  tell 
you  all,  in  the  midst  of  this  calm,  this  useful 
existence — after  a  day  passed  in  honorable  ex- 
ertion among  my  scholars,  an  evening  spent 
in  drawing  or  reading  contentedly  alone — I 
used  to  rush  into  strange  dreams  at  night — 
dreams  many-colored,  agitated,  ful  of  the 
ideal,  the  stirring,  the  stormy — dreams  where, 
amid  unusual  scenes,  charged  with  adventure, 
with  agitating  risk  and  romantic  chance,  I  still 
again  and  again  met  Mr.  Rochester,  always  at 
some  exciting  crisis ;  and  then  the  sense  of 
being  in  his  arms,  hearing  his  voice,  meeting 
his  eye,  touching  his  hand  and  cheek,  loving 
him,  being  loved  by  him — the  hope  of  passing 
a  hfetime  at  his  side,  would  be  renowned,  with 
all  its  first  force  and  fire.  Then  I  awoke  ; 
then  I  recalled  where  I  was,  and  how  situated  ; 
then  I  rose  up  on  my  curtainless  bed,  trem- 
bling and  quivering ;  and  then  the  still,  dark 
night  witnessed  the  convulsion  of  despair,  and 
heard  the  burst  of  passion.  By  nine  o'clock 
the  next  morning,  I  was  punctually  opening  the 
school — tranquil,  settled,  prepared  for  the  steady 
duties  of  the  day. 

Rosamond  Oliver  kept  her  word  in  coming  to 
visit  me.  Her  call  at  the  school  was  generally 
made  in  the  course  of  her  morning  ride.  She 
would  canter  up  to  the  door  on  her  pony,  fol- 
lowed by  a  mounted  livery  servant.  Any  thing 
more  exquisite  than  her  appearance,  in  her  pur- 
ple habit,  with  her  Amazon's  cap  of  black  velvet 
placed  gracefhlly  above  the  long  curls  that  kissed 
her  cheek  and  floated  to  her  shoulders,  can 
scarcely  be  imagined ;  and  it  was  thus  she 
would  enter  the  rustic  building,  and  glide 
through  the  dazzled  ranks  of  the  village  chd- 
dren.  She  generally  came  at  the  hour  when 
Mr.  Rivers  was  engaged  in  giving  his  daily 
catechising  lesson.  Keenly,  I  fear,  did  the  eye 
of  the  visitress  piierce  the  young  pastor's  heart. 
A  sort  of  instinct  seemed  to  wain  him  of  her 
entrance,  even  when  he  did  not  see  it ;  and 
"When  he  was  looking  quite  away  from  the  door, 
if  she  appeared  at  it,  his  cheek  would  glow,  and 


his  marble-speming  features,  though  they  re- 
fused to  relax,  changed  indescribably ;  and  in 
their  very  quiescence  became  expressive  of  a 
repressed  fervor,  stronger  than  working  muscle 
or  darting  glance  could  indicate. 

Of  course,  she  knew  her  power  ;  indeed,  he 
did  not,  because  he  could  not,  conceal  it  from 
her.  In  spite  of  his  Christian  stoicism,  when 
she  went  up  and  addressed  him,  and  smiled 
gayly,  encouragingly,  even  fondly  in  his.  face, 
his  hand  would  tremble,  and  his  eye  burn.  He 
seemed  to  say,  with  his  sad  and  resolute  look, 
if  he  did  not  say  it  with  his  lips,  "  I  love  you, 
and  T  know  you  prefer  me.  It  is  not  despair  of 
success  that  keeps  me  dumb ;  if  I  offered  my 
heart,  I  believe  you  would  accept  it.  But  that 
heart  is  already  laid  on  a  sacred  altar — the  fire 
is  arranged  round  it ;  it  will  soon  be  no  more 
than  a  sacrifice  consumed." 

And  then  she  would  pout  like  a  disappointed 
child ;  a  pensive  cloud  would  soften  her  ra- 
diant vivacity  ;  she  would  withdraw  her  hand 
hastily  from  his,  and  turn  in  transient  petulance 
from  his  aspect,  at  once  so  heroic  and  so 
martyr-like.  St.  John,  no  doubt,  would  have 
given  the  world  to  follow,  recall,  retain  her, 
when  she  thus  left  him ;  but  he  would  not  give 
one  chance  of  heaven,  nor  relinquish,  for  the 
elysium  of  her  love,  one  hope  of  the  true,  eter- 
nal paradise.  Besides,  he  could  not  bound  all 
that  he  had  in  his  nature — the  rover,  the  aspi- 
rant, the  poet,  the  priest — in  the  limits  of  a  sin- 
gle passion.  He  could  not — he  would  not — re- 
nounce his  wild  field  of  mission  warfare  for  the 
parlors  and  the  peace  of  Vale  Hall.  I  learned 
so  much  from  himself,  in  an  inroad  I  once,  de- 
spite his  reserve,  had  the  daring  to  make  on  his 
confidence. 

Miss  Oliver  already  honored  me  with  fre- 
quent visits  to  my  cottage.  I  had  learned  her 
whole  character,  which  was  without  mystery 
or  disguise ;  she  was  coquetish,  but  not  heart- 
less—  exacting,  but  not  worthlessly  selfish. 
She  had  been  indulged  from  her  birth,  but  was 
not  absolutely  spoiled.  She  was  hasty,  but 
good-humored ;  vain  (she  could  not  help  it, 
when  every  glance  in  the  glass  showed  her 
such  a  flush  of  loveliness),  but  not  affected ; 
liberal-handed ;  innocent  of  the  pride  of  wealth ; 
ingenuous  ;  sufficiently  intelligent ;  gay,  lively, 
and  unthinking ;  she  was  very  charming,  in 
short,  even  to  a  cool  observer  of  her  own  sex 
like  me ;  but  she  was  not  profoundly  interest- 
ing or  thoroughly  impressive.  A  very  differ- 
ent sort  of  mind  was  hers  from  that,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  sisters  of  St.  John.  Still,  I 
liked  her  almost  as  I  liked  my  pupil  Adele  ;  ex- 
cept that,  for  a  child  whom  we  have  watched 
over  and  taught,  a  closer  affection  is  engender- 
ed than  we  can  give  an  equally  attractive  adult 
acquaintance. 

She  had   taken  an  amiable  caprice  to  me. 
She  said  I  was  like  Mr.  Rivers  (only,  certainly, 
she  allowed,  "  not  one  tenth  so  handsome ; 
though  I  was  a  nice,  neat  little  soul  enough ;    ? 
but  he  was  an  angel").     I  was,  however,  good,   l5 
clever,  composed,  and  firm,  like  him.     I  was  a 
lusiis  natures,  she  affirmed,  as  a  village  school- 
mistress ;  she  was  sure  my  previous  history,  if    ], 
known,  would  make  a  delightful  romance. 

One  evening,  whUe  with  her  usual  childlike 
activity,  and  thoughtless  yet  not  offensive  in- 


143 


JANE  EYRE. 


quisitiveness,  she  was  rummaging  the  cupboard 
and  the  table-drawer  of  my  little  kitchen,  she 
discovered  first  two  French  books,  a  volume  of 
Schiller,  a  German  grammar  and  dictionary ; 
and  then  my  drawing-materials  and  some 
sketches,  including  a  pencil-head  of  a  pretty  lit- 
tle cherub-like  girl,  one  of  my  scholars,  and 
sundry  views  from  nature,  takeru'in  the  Vale  of 
Morton  and  on  the  surrounding  moors.  She 
waa  first  transfixed  with  surprise,  and  then 
electrified  with  delight. 

"Had  I  done  these  pictures!  Did  I  know 
French  and  German  1  What  a  love — what  a 
miracle  I  was  !     I  drew  better  than  her  iiiastcr 

in  the  first  school  in  S .     Would  I  sketch  a 

portrait  of  her  to  show  to  papal" 

'*  With  pleasure,"  I  replied  ;  and  I  felt  a  thrill 
of  artist-delight  at  the  idea  of  copying  from  so 
perfect  and  radiant  a  model.  She  had  then  on 
a  dark-blue  silk  dress ;  her  arms  and  her  neck 
were  bare ;  her  only  ornament  was  her  chest- 
nut tresses,  which  waved  over  her  shoulders 
with  all  the  wild  grace  of  natural  curls.  I  took 
a  sheet  of  fine  card-board,  and  drew  a  careful 
outline.  I  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  col- 
oring it ;  and,  as  it  was  getting  late  then,  I  told 
her  she  must  come  and  sit  another  day. 

She  made  such  a  report  of  me  to  her  father, 
that  Mr.  Oliver  himself  accompanied  her  next 
evening — a  tali,  massive-featured,  middle-aged, 
and  gray-headed  man,  at  whose  side  his  lovely 
daughter  looked  like  a  bright  flower  near  a 
hoary  turret.  He  appeared  a  taciturn,  and  per- 
haps a  proud  personage  ;  but  he  was  very  kind 
'  to  me.  The  sketch  of  Rosamond's  portrait 
pleased  him  highly ;  he  said  I  must  make  a 
finished  picture  of  it.  He  insisted,  too,  on  my 
coming  the  next  day  to  spend  the  evening  at 
Vale  Hall. 

I  went.  I  found  it  a  large,  handsome  resi- 
dence, showing  abundant  evidences  of  wealth 
in  the  proprietor.  Rosamond  was-  full  of  glee 
and  pleasure  all  the  time  I  stayed.  Her  father 
was  affable  ;  and  when  he  entered  into  conver- 
sation with  me  after  tea,  he  expressed  in  strong 
terms  his  approbation  of  what  I  had  done  in  Mor- 
ton school ;  and  said  he  only  feared,  from  what 
he  saw  and  heard,  I  was  too  good  for  the  place, 
and  would  soon  quit  it  for  one  more  suitable. 

"Indeed!"  cried  Rosamond,  "she  is  clever 
enough  to  be  a  governess  in  a  high  family,  papa  !" 

I  thought — I  would  far  rather  be  where  I  am 
than  in  any  high  family  iu  the  land.     Mr.  Oli- 
ver spoke  of  Mr.  Rivers— of  the  Rivers  family 
— with  great  respect.     He  said  it  was  a  very 
old  name  in  that  neighborhood  ;   that  the  an- 
cestors of  the  house  were  wealthy ;   that  all 
Morton  had  once  belonged  to  them  ;  that  even 
now  he  considered  the  representative  of  that 
house  might,  if  he  liked,  make  an  alliance  with 
the  best.     He  accounted  it  a  pity  that  so  nne 
and  talented  a  young  man  should  have  formed 
the  design  of  going  out  as  a  missionary  ;  it  was 
quite  throwing  a  valuable  life  away.     It  appear- 
ed, then,  that  her  father  would  throw  no  obsta- 
cle in  the  way  of  Rosamond's  union  with  St. 
John.    Mr.  Oliver  evidently  regarded  the  young 
clergyman's  good  birth,  old  name,  and  sacred 
profession,  as  suflicient  compensation  for  the 
want  of  fortune. 

It  was  ilio  fifth  of  November,  and  a  holyday. 
My  little  servant,  after  helping  me  to  clean  my 


house,  was  gone,  well  satisfied  with  the  fee  of 
a  penny  for  her  aid.  All  about  me  was  spotless 
and  bright — scoured  floor,  polished  grate,  and 
well-rubbed  chairs.  I  had  also  made  myself 
neat,  jnd  had  now  the  afternoon  before  me  to 
spend  as  I  would. 

The  translation  of  a  few  pages  of  German 
occupied  an  hour;  then  I  got  my  pallet  and 
pencils,  and  fell  to  the  more  soothing,  because 
easier  occupation,  of  completing  Rosamond  Oli- 
ver's miniature.  The  head  was  finished  al- 
ready ;  there  was  but  the  background  to  tint, 
and  the  drapery  to  shade  off;  a  touch  of  car- 
mine, too,  to  add  to  the  ripe  lips — a  soft  curl 
here  and  there  to  the  tresses — a  deeper  tinge 
to  the  shadoAv  of  the  lash  under  the  azured  eye- 
lid. I  was  absorbed  in  the  execution  of  these 
nice  details,  when,  after  one  rapid  tap,  my  door 
unclosed,  admitting  St.  John  Rivers. 

"  I  am  come  to  see  how  you  are  spending 
your  holyday,"  he  said.  "  Not,  I  hope,  in 
thought  1  No,  that  is  well ;  while  you  draw 
you  will  not  feel  lonely.  .  You  see,  1  mistrust 
you  still ;  though  you  ^lave  borne  up  wonder- 
fully so  far.  I  have  brought  you  a  book  for 
evening  solace,"  and  he  laid  on  the  table  a  new 
publication — a  poem  ;  one  of  those  genuine 
productions  so  often  vouchsafed  to  the  fortunate 
public  of  those  days — the  golden  age  of  modern 
literature.  Alas !  the  readers  of  our  era  are 
less  favored.  But,  courage !  I  will  not  pause 
either  to  accuse  or  repine.  I  know  poetry  is 
not  dead,  nor  genius  lost ;  nor  has  Mammon 
gained  power  over  either,  to  bind  or  slay  ;  they 
will  both  assert  their  existence,  their  presence, 
their  liberty,  and  strength  again  one  daj-.  Pow- 
erful angels,  safe  in  heaven  !  they  smile  when 
sordid  souls  triumph,  and  feeble  ones  weep 
over  their  destruction.  Poetry  destroyed !  Ge- 
nius banished  1  No  !  Mediocrity,  no  :  do  not 
let  envy  prompt  you  to  the  thought.  No  ;  they 
not  only  live,  but  reign,  and  redeem  ;  and  with- 
out their  divine  influence  spread  every  where, 
you  would  be  in  hell — the  hell  of  your  own 
meanness. 

While  I  was  eagerly  glancing  at  the  bright 
pages  of  Marmion  (for  Marmion  it  was),  St. 
John  stooped  to  examine  my  drawing.  His  tall 
figure  sprang  erect  again  with  a  start ;  he  said 
nothing.  1  looked  up  at  him  ;  he  shunned  my 
eye.  I  knew  his  thoughts  well,  and  could  read 
his  heart  plainly ;  at  the  moment  I  felt  calmer 
and  cooler  than  he  ;  I  had  then  temporarily  the 
advantage  of  him  ;  and  I  conceived  an  incUna- 
tion  to  do  him  some  good,  if  I  could. 

"With  all  his  firmness  and  self  control," 
thought  I,  "  he  tasks  himself  too  far  ;  locks  ev- 
ery feelmg  and  pang  within — expresses,  con- 
fesses, imparts  nothing.  I  an>  sure  it  would 
benefit  him  to  talk  a  little  about  this  sweet  Rosa- 
mond, whom  he  thinks  he  ought  not  to  marry ; 
I  will  make  him  talk." 

I  said  first,  "  Take  a  chair,  Mr.  Rivers."  But 
ho  answered,  as  he  always  did,  that  he  could 
not  stay.  "  Very  well,"  I  responded,  mentally, 
"stand,  if  you  like  ;  but  you  shall  not  go  just 
yet,  1  am  determined ;  solitude  is  at  least  as 
bad  for  you  as  it  is  for  me.  I'll  try  if  I  can  not 
discover  the  secret  spring  of  your  confidence, 
and  find  an  aperture  in  that  marble  breast 
through  which  I  can  shed  one  drop  of  the  balm 
of  sympathy." 


JANE  EYRE. 


14» 


"  la  this  portrait  like  1"  I  asked,  bluntly. 
"  Like  i     Like  whom  1     I  did  not  observe  it 
closely." 

"You  did,  Mr.  Rivers." 
He  almost  started  at  niy  sudden  and  strange 
abruptness;  he  looked  at  me  astonished.  "Oh, 
that  is  nothing  yet,"  I  muttered  within.  "  I  don't 
mean  to  be  baffled  by  a  little  stiffness  on  your 
part  ;  I'm  prepared  to  go  to  considerable 
lengliis."  I  continued,  "  You  observed  it  close- 
ly and  distinctly  ;  but  I  have  no  objection  to 
your  looking  at  it  again,"  and  I  rose  and  placed 
it  in  his  hand. 

"A  well-executed  picture,"  he  said;  "very 
soft,  clear  coloring  ;  very  graceful  and  correct 
drawing." 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  know  all  that.  But  what  of 
the  resemblance  1     Who  is  it  like  1" 

Mastering  some  hesitation,  he  answered, 
"Miss  Oliver,  I  presume." 

"  Of  course.  And  now,  sir,  to  reward  you 
for  the  accurate  guess,  I  will  promise  to  paint 
you  a  careful  and  faithful  duplicate  of  this  very 
picture,  provided  you  admit  that  the  gift  would 
be  acceptable  to  you.  I  don't  wish  to  throw 
away  my  time  and  trouble  on  an  offering  yuu 
would  deem  worthless." 

He  continued  to  gaze  at  the  picture ;  the 
longer  he  looked  the  firmer  he  held  it,  the 
more  he  seemed  to  covet  it.  "It  is  like  !"  he 
murmured  ;  "  the  eye  is  well  managed ;  the 
color,  light,  expression,  are  perfect.    It  smiles !" 

"Would  it  comfort,  or  would  it  wound  you 
to  have  a  similar  painting?  Tell  me  that. 
When  you  are  at  Madagascar,  or  at  the  Cape, 
or  in  India^  would  it  be  a  consolation  to  have 
that  memento  in  your  possession ;  or  would 
the  sight  of  it  bring  recollections  calculated  to 
enervate  and  distress  1" 

He  now  furtively  raised  his  eyes  ;  he  glanced 
at  me  irresolute,  disturbed ;  he  again  surveyed 
the  picture. 

"  That  I  should  like  to  have  it  is  certain  ; 
whether  it  would  be  judicious  or  wise  is  an- 
other question." 

Since  I  had  ascertained  that  Rosamond 
really  preferred  him,  and  that  her  father  was 
not  likely  to  oppose  the  match,  I — less  exalted 
in  my  views  than  St.  John — had  been  strongly 
disposed  in  my  own  heart  to  advocate  their 
union.  It  seemed  to  me  that,  should  he  be- 
come the  possessor  of  Mr.  Oliver's  large  for- 
tune, he  might  do  as  much  good  with  it  as  if 
he  went  and  laid  his  genius  out  to  wither,  and 
his  strength  to  waste,  under  a  tropical  sun. 
With  this  persuasion,  I  now  answered  : 

"  As  far  as  I  can  see,  it  would  be  wiser  and 
more  judicious  if  you  were  to  take  to  yourself 
the  original  at  once." 

By  this  time  he  had  sat  down ;  he  had  laid 
the  picture  on  the  table  before  him,  and,  with 
his  brow  supported  on  both  hands,  hung  fondly 
over  it.  I  discerned  he  was  now  neither  angry 
nor  shocked  at  my  audacity.  I  saw  even  that 
to  be  thus  frankly  addressed  on  a  subject  he 
had  deemed  unapproachable,  to  hear  it  thus 
freely  handled,  was  beginning  to  be  felt  by  him 
as  a  new  pleasure,  an  unliopcd-for  relief  Re- 
served people  often  really  need  the  frank  dis- 
cussion of  their  sentiments  and  griefs  mere 
than  the  expansive.  The  sternest-seeming 
stoic  is  human  after  all;  and  to  "burst"  wiili 


boldness  and  good  will  into  "the  silent  sea"  of 
their  souls,  is  often  to  confer  on  them  the  first 
of  obligations. 

"  She  likes  you,  I  am  sure,"  said  I,  as  I  stood 
behind  his  chair,  "and  her  father  respects  you. 
Moreover,  she  is  a  sweet  girl — rather  thought- 
less ;  but  you  would  have  sufficient  thought  for 
both  yourself  and  her.  You  ought  to  marry 
her." 

"Docs  she  like  meV  he  asked. 
"Certainly;  belter  than  she  likes  any  one 
else.     She  talks  of  you  continually;  there  i3 
no  subject  she  enjoys  so  much,  or  touches  upoa 
so  often." 

"It  is  very  pleasant  to  hear  this,"  he  said, 
"  very ;  go  on  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour." 
And  he  actually  took  out  his  watch  and  laid  it 
upon  the  table  to  measure  the  time. 

"  But  where  is  the  use  of  going  on,"  I  asked, 
"  when  you  are  probably  preparing  some  iron 
blow  of  contradiction,  or  forging  a  fresh  chaia 
to  fetter  your  heart  1" 

"Don't  imagine  such  hard  things.  Fancy 
me  yielding  and  melting,  as  I  am  doing  ;  humaa 
love  rising  like  a  freshly  opened  fountain  in  my 
mind,  and  overflowing  with  sweet  inundatioa 
all  the  field  I  have  so  carefully,  and  with  such 
labor,  prepared  ;  so  assiduously  sown  with  the 
seeds  of  good  intentions,  of  self-denying  plans. 
And  nov/  it  is  deluged  with  a  nectarious  flood ; 
the  young  germs  swamped,  delicious  poison 
cankering  them  ;  now'  I  see  myself  stretched 
on  an  ottoman  in  the  drawing-room  at  Vale 
Hall,  at  my  bride  Rosamond  Oliver's  feet ;  she 
is  talking  to  me  with  her  sweet  voice,  gazing 
down  on  me  with  those  eyes  your  skillful  hand 
has  copied  so  well,  smiling  at  me  with  these 
coral  lips.  She  is  mine;  I  am  hers  ;  this  pres- 
ent life  and  passing  world  suffice  tome.  Hush! 
say  nothing,  my  heart  is  full  of  delight,  my 
senses  are  entranced ;  let  the  time  I  marked 
pass  in  peace." 

I  humored  him ;  the  watch  ticked  on,  he 
breathed  fast  and  low,  I  stood  silent.  Amid 
this  hush  the  quarter  sped  ;  he  replacsd  the 
watch,  laid  the  picture  down,  rose,  and  stood 
on  the  hearth. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  that  little  space  was  given 
to  delirium  and  delusion.  I  rested  my  temples 
on  the  breast  of  temptation,  and'  put  my  neck 
voluntarily  under  her  yoke  of  flowers  ;  I  tasted 
her  cup.  The  pillow  is  burning,  there  is  aa 
asp  in  the  garland  ;  the  wine  has  a  bitter  taste, 
her  promises  are  hollow,  her  offers  false  ;  I  86« 
and  know  all  this." 

I  gazed  at  him  in  wonder. 
"  It  is  strange,"  pursued  he,  "  that  while  £ 
love  Rosamond  OUver  so  wildly,  with  all  the 
intensity,  indeed,  of  a  first  passion,  the  object 
of  which  is  exquisitely  beautiful,  graceful,  and 
fascinating,  I  experience  at  the  same  time  a 
calm,  unvvarped  consciousness,  that  she  would 
not  make  me  a  good  wife  ;  that  she  is  not  the 
partner  suited  to  me ;  that  I  should  discover 
this  within  a  year  after  marriage;  and  that  to 
twelve  month's  rapture  would  succeed  a  life- 
time of  regret.     This  I  know." 

•'  Strange,  indeed  !"  I  could  not  help  ejacula 
ting. 

"  While  something  in  me,"  he  went  on,  "is 
acutely  sensible  to  her  charms,  something  else 
is  as  deeply  impressed  with  her  defects ;  they 


144 


JANE  EYRE. 


are  such  that  she  could  sympathize  in  nothing 
I  aspired  to  ;  co-operate  in  nothing  I  under- 
took. Rosamond  a  sufferer,  a  laborer,  a  fe- 
male apostle  1  Rosamond  a  missionary's  wife  1 
No !" 

"  But  you  need  not  be  a  missionary.  You 
might  relinquish  that  scheme.'' 

"  Relinquish  !  What — my  vocation  1  My 
great  work  1  My  foundation  laid  on  earth  for 
a  mansion  in  heaven  1  My  hopes  of  being 
numbered  in  the  band  who  have  merged  all 
ambitions  in  the  glorious  one  of  bettering  their 
race  ;  of  carrying  knowledge  into  the  realms  of 
ignorance,  of  substituting  peace  for  war,  free- 
dom for  bondage,  religion  for  superstition,  the 
hope  of  heaven  for  the  fear  of  hell  1  Must  I 
relinquish  that  1  It  is  dearer  than  the  blood  in 
my  veins.  It  is  what  I  have  to  look  forward  to, 
and  to  live  for." 

After  a  considerable  pause,  I  said,  "And 
MissJ  Oliver  1  Are  her  disappointment  and 
sorrow  of  no  interest  to  you  1" 

"  Miss  Oliver  is  ever  surrounded  by  suitors 
and  flatterers  ;  in  less  than  a  month,  my  image 
will  be  effaced  from  her  heart.  She  will  for- 
get me,  and  will  marry,  probably,  some  one 
who  will  make  her  far  happier  than  I  should  do." 

"  You  speak  coolly  enough,  but  you  suffer  in 
the  conflict.     You  are  wasting  away." 

"  No.  If  I  get  a  little  thin,  it  is  with  anxie- 
ty about  my  prospects,  yet  unsettled  ;  my  de- 
parture, continually  procrastinated.  Only  this 
morning  I  received  intelligence  that  the  suc- 
cessor, whose  arrival  I  have  been  so  long  ex- 
pecting, can  not  be  ready  to  replace  me  for 
three  months  to  come  yet,  and  perhaps  the 
three  months  may  extend  to  six." 

"  You  tremble  and  become  flushed  whenever 
Miss  OUver  enters  the  school-room." 

Again  the  surprised  expression  crossed  his 
face.  He  had  not  imagined  that  a  woman 
would  dare  to  speak  so  to  a  man.  For  me,  I 
felt  at  home  in  this  sort  of  discourse.  I  could 
never  rest  in  communication  with  strong,  dis- 
creet, and  refined  minds,  whether  male  or  fe- 
-male,  till  I  had  passed  the  outworks  of  con- 
ventional reserve,  and  crossed  the  threshold  of 
confidence,  and  won  a  place  by  their  heart's 
very  hearth-stone. 

"  You  are  original,"  said  he,  "  and  not  timid. 
There  is  something  brave  in  your  spirit,  as  well 
as  penetrating  in  your  eye  ;  but  allow  me  to 
assure  you  that  you  partially  misinterpret  my 
emotions.  You  think  them  more  profound  and 
potent  than  they  are.  You  give  me  a  larger 
allowance  of  sympathy  than  I  have  a  just 
<^laim  to.  When  I  color,  and  when  I  shake  be- 
iore  Miss  Oliver,  I  do  not  pity  myself.  I  scorn 
the  weakness.  I  know  it  is  ignoble — a  mere 
fever  of  the  flesh  :  not,  I  declare,  a  convulsion 
of  the  soul.  That  is  just  as  fixed  as  a  rock, 
firm  set  in  the  depths  of  a  restless  sea.  Know 
rnc  to  be  what  I  am — a  cold,  hard  man."- 

I  smiled  incredulously. 

"  You  have  taken  my  confidence  by  storm," 
he  continued,  "  and  now  it  is  much  at  your  ser- 
vice. I  am  simply,  in  my  original  state — strip- 
ped of  that  blood-bleached  robe  with  which 
Christianity  covers  human  deformity — a  cold, 
hard,  ambitious  man.  Natural  affection  only, 
of  all  the  sentiments,  has  permanent  power  over 
me.     Reason,  and  not  Feeling,  is  my  guide  : 


my  ambition  is  unhmited — my  desire  to  rise 
higher,  to  do  more  than  others,  insatiable.  I 
honor  endurance,  perseverance,  industry,  talent, 
because  these  are  the  means  by  which  mea 
achieve  great  ends,  and  mount  to  lofty  emi- 
nence. I  watch  your  career  with  interest,  be- 
cause I  consider  you  a  specimen  of  a  diligent, 
orderly,  energetic  woman  :  not  because  I  deep- 
ly compassionate  what  you  have  gone  through, 
or  what  you  still  suffer." 

"  You  would  describe  vourself  as  a  mere 
pagan  philosopher,"  I  said. 

"No.  There  is  this  difference  between  me 
and  deistic  philosophers  :  I  believe  ;  and  I  be- 
lieve the  Gospel.  You  missed  your  epithet.  I 
am  not  a  pagan,  but  a  Christian  philosopher — a 
follower  of  the  sect  of  Jesus.  As  his  disciple, 
I  adopt  his  pure,  his  merciful,  his  benignant 
doctrines.  I  advocate  them — I  am  sworn  to 
spread  them.  Won  in  youth  to  religion,  she  has 
cultivated  my  original  qualities  thus  :  From  the 
minute  germ,  natural  affection,  she  has  devel- 
oped the  overshadowing  tree,  philanthropy. 
From  the  wild,  stringy  root  of  human  upright- 
ness she  has  reared  a  due  sense  of  the  Divine 
justice.  Of  the  ambition  to  win  power  and 
renown  for  my  wretched  self,  she  has  formed 
the  ambition  to  spread  my  Master's  kingdom — 
to  achieve  victories  for  the  standard  of  the 
cross.  So  much  has  religion  done  for  me  • 
turning  the  original  materials  to  the  best  ac- 
count— pruning  and  training  nature.  But  shsf 
could  not  eradicate  nature  ;  nor  will  it  be  erai.-: 
icated  '  till  this  mortal  shall  put  on  immor^' 
tahty.'  " 

Having  said  this,  he  took  his  hat,  which  lay 
on  the  table  beside  my  pallet.  Once  more  he 
looked  at  the  portrait. 

"  She  is  lovely,"  he  murmured.  "  She  is  well 
named  the  Rose  of  the  World,  indeed  !" 

"  And  may  I  not  paint  one  like  it  for  you  1" 

"  Cui  bono  ?     No." 

He  drew  over  the  picture  the  sheet  of  thin 
paper  on  which  I  was  accustomed  to  rest  my 
hand  in  painting  to  prevent  the  card-board  from 
being  sullied.  What  he  suddenly  saw  on  this 
blank  paper  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  tell ; 
but  something  had  caught  his  eye.  He  took  it 
up  with  a  snatch  ;  he  looked  at  the  edge,  then 
shot  a  glance  at  me,  inexpressibly  peculiar,  and 
quite  incomprehensible — a  glance  that  seemed 
to  take  and  make  note  of  every  point  in  my 
shape,  face,  and  dress,  for  it  traversed  all, 
quick,  keen  as  lightning.  His  lips  parted;  as  if 
to  speak,  but  he  checked  the  coming  sentence, 
whatever  it  was. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  I  asked, 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,"  was  the  reply ;  and, 
replacing  the  paper,  I  saw  him  dexterously  tear 
a  narrow  slip  from  the  margin.  It  disappear- 
ed in  his  glove ;  and,  with  one  hasty  nod  and 
"good-afternoon,"  he  vanished. 

"  Well !"  I  exclaimed,  using  an  expression 
of  the  district ;  "  that  caps  the  globe,  how- 
ever !"  i: 

I,  in  my  turn,  scrutinized  the  paper;  but  saw 
nothing  on  it,  save  a  few  dingy  stains  of  paint, 
where  I  had  tried  the  tint  in  my  pencil.  I 
pondered  the  mystery  a  minute  or  two  ;  but, 
finding  it  insolvable,  and  being  certam  it  could 
not  be  of  much  moment,  I  dismissed  and  sooa 
forgot  it. 


JANE  EYRE. 


145 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Whbn  Mr.  St.  John  went,  it  was  beginning 

to  snow :   the  whirling   storm    continued  all 

night.      The   next  day  a  keen  wind  brought 

fresh  and  blinding  falls;  by  twilight  the  valley 

was  drifted  up  and  almost  impassable.     I  had 

closed  my  shutter,  laid  a  mat  to  the  door  to 

prevent  the  snow  from  blowing  in  under  it, 

trimmed  my  fire,  and,  after  sitting  nearly  an 

hour  on  the  hearth,  listening  to  the  muffled  fury 

of  the  tempest,  I  lighted  a  candle,  took  down 

Marmion,  and  beginning — 

"  Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot  mountains  lone  ; 
The  massive  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  them  sweep. 

In  yellow  luster  shone." 

I  soon  forgot  storm  in  music. 

I  heard  a  noise  :  the  wind,  I  thought,  shook 
the  door.  No  ;  it  was  St.  John  Rivers,  who, 
lifting  the  latch,  came  in  out  of  the  frozen  hur- 
ricane, the  howling  darkness,  and  stood  before 
me,  the  cloak  that  covered  his  tall  figure  all 
white  as  a  glacier.  I  was  almost  in  consterna- 
tion, so  little  had  I  expected  any  guest  from  the 
blocked-up  vale  that  night. 

"  Any  ill  news  V  1  demanded.  "  Has  any 
thing  happened  V 

"No.  How  very  easily  alarmed  you  are  !" 
he  answered,  removing  hi^  cloak  and  hanging 
it  up  against  the  door,  toward  which  he  again 
coolly  pushed  the  mat  which  his  entrance  had 
deranged.  He  stamped  the  snow  from  his 
boots. 

"  I  shall  sully  the  purity  of  your  floor,"  said 
he,  "  but  you  must  excNise  me  for  once."  Then 
he  approached  the  fire.  "  I  have  had  hard  work 
to  get  here,  I  assure  you,"  he  observed,  as  he 
warmed  his  hands  over  the  flame.  "One  drift 
took  me  up  to  the  waist ;  happily  the  snow  is 
quite  soft  yet." 

"  But  why  are  you  come  V  I  could  not  for- 
bear saying. 

"  Raiher  an  inhospitable  question  to  put  to  a 
visitor ;  but,  since  you  ask  it,  t  answer,  simply, 
to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  ;  I  got  tired  of 
my  mute  honks  and  empty  rooms.  Besides, 
since  yesterday,  I  have  experienced  the  excite- 
ment of  a  person  to  whom  a  tale  has  been 
half  told,  and  who  is  impatient  to  hear  the  se- 
quel." 

He  sat  down.  I  recalled  his  singular  con- 
duct of  yesterday,  and  really  I  began  to  fear  his 
wits  were  touched.  If  he  were  insane,  how- 
ever, his  was  a  very  cool  and  collected  insan- 
ity ;  I  had  never  seen  that  handsome-featured 
face  of  his  look  more  like  chiseled  marble  than 
it  did  just  now,  as  he  put  aside  his  snow-wet 
hair  from  his  forehead  and  let  the  fire-light 
shine  free  on  his  pale  brow  and  cheek  as  pale ; 
where  it  grieved  me  to  discover  the  hollow 
trace  of  care  or  sorrow  now  so  plainly  graved. 
I  wailed,  expecting  he  would  say  something  I 
could  at  least  comprehend ;  but  his  hand  was 
now  at  his  chin,  his  finger  on  his  lip;  he  was 
thinking.  It  struck  me  that  his  hand  looked 
wasted  like  his  face.  A  perhaps  uncalled-for 
gush  of  pity  came  over  my  heart ;  I  was  moved 
to  say — 

"  I  wish  Diana  or  Mary  would  come  and  live 
with  you  ;  it  is  too  bad  that  you  should  be  quite 
K 


alone ;  and  your  are  recklessly  rash  about  your 
own  health." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  he ;  "  I  care  for  myself 
when  necessary ;  I  am  well  now.  What  do 
you  see  amiss  in  mel" 

This  was  said  with  a  careless,  abstracted  in- 
difference, which  showed  that  my  solicitude  was, 
at  least  in  his  opinion,  wholly  superfluous.  I 
was  silenced. 

He  still  slowly  moved  his  finger  over  his 
upper  lip,  and  still  his  eye  dwelt  dreamily  on 
the  glowing  grate ;  thinking  it  urgent  to  say 
something,  I  asked  him  presently  if  he  felt  any 
cold  draught  from  the  door,  which  was  behind 
him. 

"  No,  no,"  he  responded,  shortly  and  some- 
what testily. 

"Well,"  I  reflected  ;  "if  you  won't  talk,  you 
may  be  still ;  I'll  let  you  alone  now  and  return 
to  my  book." 

So  I  snufllsd  the  candle,  and  resumed  the 
perusal  of  Marmion.  He  .soon  stirred  ;  my  eye 
was  instantly  drawn  to  his  movements ;  he 
only  took  out  a  morocco  pocket-book,  thence 
produced  a  letter  which  he  read  in  silence,  fold- 
ed it,  put  it  back,  relapsed  into  meditation.  It 
was  vain  to  try  to  read  with  such  an  inscruta- 
ble fixture  befere  me ;  nor  could  I,  in  my  im- 
patience, consent  to  be  dumb  ;  he  might  rebuff 
me  if  he  liked,  but  talk  I  would. 

"  Have  you  heard  from  Diana  and  Mary 
lately  V 

'•  Not  since  the  letter  I  showed  you  a  week 
ago." 

"  There  has  not  been  any  change  made 
about  your  own  arrangements  1  You  will  not 
be  summoned  to  leave  England  sooner  than 
you  expected  V 

"  I  fear  not,  indeed  ;  such  chance  is  too  good 
to  befall  me."  Baffled  so  far,  I  changed  my 
ground — I  bethought  myself  to  talk  about  the 
school  and  my  scholars. 

"  Mary  Garrett's  mother  is  better,  and  Mary 
came  back  to  the  school  this  morning,  and  I 
shall  have  four  new  girls  next  week  fiom  the 
Foundry  Close — they  would  have  come  to-day 
but  for  the  snow." 

" Indeed  1" 

"Mr.  Oliver  pays  for  two." 

"Does  hel" 

"  He  means  to  give  the  whole  school  a  treat 
at  Christmas." 

"  I  know." 

"  Was  it  your  suggestion  !'* 

"No." 

"Whose,  thcnl" 

"  His  daughter's,  I  think  " 

"  It  is  like  her ;  she  is  so  good-natured." 

"  Yes." 

Again  came  the  blank  of  a  pause  ;  the  clock 
struck  eight  strokes.  It  aroused  him  ;  he  un- 
crossed his  legs,  sat  erect,  turned  to  me. 

"  Leave  your  book  a  moment,  and  come  a 
little  nearer  the  fire,"  he  said. 

Wondering,  and  of  my  wonder  finding  no 
end,  I  complied. 

"  Half  an  hour  ago,"  he  pursued,  "  I  spoke  of 
my  impatience  to  hear  IhS  sequel  of  a  tale ;  on 
reflection,  I  find  the  matter  will  be  better  man- 
aged by  my  assuming  the  narrator's  part,  and 
converting  yi)U  into  a  listener.  Before  com- 
mencing, it  ia  but  fair  to  warn  you  that  the 


146 


JANE  EYRE. 


story  will  sound  somewhat  hackneyed  in  your 
ears  ;  hut  stale  details  often  regain  a  degree  of 
freshness  when  they  pass  through  new  lips. 
For  the  rest,  whether  trite  or  novel,  it  is  short. 

"  Twenty  years  ago,  a  poor  curate — never 
mind  his  name  at  this  moment — fell  in  love 
*Uh  a  rich  man's  daughter ;  she  fell  in  love 
with  him,  and  married  him,  against  the  advice 
of  all  her  friends,  who  consequently  disowned 
her  immediately  after  the  wedding.  Before 
two  years  passed,  the  rash  pair  were  hoth  dead, 
and  laid  quietly  side  by  side  under  one  slah.  (I 
have  seen  their  grave  ;  it  formed  part  of  the 
pavement  of  a  huge  church-yard  surrounding 
^he  grim,  soot-black,  old  cathedral  of  an  over- 
grown manufacturing  town  in shire.)  They 

left  a  daughter,  which,  at  its  very  birth, 
Charity  received  in  her  lap — cold  as  that  of  the 
snow-drift  I  almost  stuck  fast  in  to-night.  Char- 
ity carried  the  friendless  thing  to  the  house  of 
its  rich,  maternal  relations  ;  it  was  reared  by 
an  aunt-in-law,  called  (I  come  to  names  now) 
Mrs.  Keed  of  Gateshead — you  start — did  you 
hear  a  noise'!  I  dare  say  it  is  only  a  rat 
scrambling  along  the  rafters  of  the  adjoining 
schoolroom :  it  was  a  barn  before  I  had  it  re- 
paired and  altered,  and  barns  are  generally 
haunted  by  rats.  To  proceed.  Mrs.  Reed 
kept  the  orphan  ten  years ;  whether  it  was 
happy  or  not  with  her,  I  can  not  say,  never 
having  been  told;  but  at  the  end  of  that  time 
she  transferred  it  to  a  place  you  know — being 
no  other  than  Lowood  sciiool,  where  you  so 
'ong  resided  yourself.  It  seems  her  career 
there  was  very  honorable;  from  a  pupil,  she 
became  a  teacher,  like  yourself — really  it  strikes 
m-e  there  are  parallel  points  in  her  history  and 
yours — she  left .  it  to  be  a  governess  ;  there, 
again,  your  fates  were  analogous;  she  under- 
took the  education  of  the  ward  of  a  certain  Mr. 
Rochester." 

"  Mr.  Rivers  !"  I  interrupted. 

"I  can  guess  your  feelings,"  he  said,  "but 
restrain  them  for  a  while;  I  have  nearly  fin- 
ished ;  hear  me  to  the  end.  Of  Mr.  Roches- 
ter's character  I  know  nothing,  but  the  one  fact 
that  he  professed  to  offer  honorable  marriage 
to  this  young  girl,  and  that  at  the  very  altar 
she  discovered  he  had  a  wife  yet  alive,  though 
a  lunatic.  What  his  subsequent  conduct  and 
proposals  were  is  a  matter  of  pure  conjecture  ; 
but  when  an  event  transpired  which  rendered 
inquiry  after  the  governess  necessary,  it  was 
discovered  she  was  gone — no  one  could  tell 
when,  where,  or  how.  She  had  left  Thorn- 
field  Hall  in  the  night ;  every  research  after  her 
course  had  been  vain  :  the  country  had  been 
scoured  far  and  wide;  no  vestige  of  informa- 
tion could  be  gathered  respecting  her.  Yet 
that  she  should  be  found  is  become  a  matter  of 
serious  urgency ;  advertisements  have  been 
put  in  all  the  papers  ;  I  myself  have  received  a 
letter  from  one  Mr.  Briggs,  a  solicitor,  commu- 
nicating the  details  I  have  just  imparted.  Is  it 
not  an  odd  tale  1" 

"Just  tell  me  this,"  said  I,  "and  since  you 
know  so  much,  you  sur4;ly  can  tell  it  lue — what 
of  Mr.  llociicster?  How  and  where  is  he! 
Whru  IS  he  domg I     Is  he  well  V 

"lam  ignorant  of  all  concerning  Mr.  Roches- 
ter ;  tlie  h'.itpv  never  mentions  him  but  to  nar- 
rate the  fraudulent  and  illegal  attempt  I  have 


adverted  to.     You  should  rather  ask  the  nam 
of  the   governess — the   nature   of  the   eveij' 
which  requires  her  appearance." 

"Did  no  one  go  to  Thornfield  Hall,  Ihea 
Did  no  one  see  Mr.  Rochester." 

"I  suppose  not." 

"  But  they  wrote  to  himi" 

"  Of  course." 

"  And  what  did  he  say.l  Who  has  his  let- 
ters?" 

"  Mr.  Brigas  intimates  that  the  answer  to  his 
application  was  not  from  Mr.  Rochester,  but 
from  a  lady  ;  it  is  signed  '  Alice  Fairfax.' " 

I  felt  cold  and  dismayed  ;  my  worst  feare, 
then,  were  probably  true  :  he  had  in  all  proba- 
bility left  England  and  rushed  in  reckless  des- 
peration to  some  former  haunt  on  the  continent. 
And  what  opiate  for  his  severe  sufferings — 
what  object  for  his  strong  passions — had  he 
sought  there  1  I  dared  not  answer  the  ques- 
tion. Oh,  my  poor  master — once  almost  my 
husband — whom  I  had  often  called  "  my  dear 
Edward  !" 

"  He  must  have  been  a  bad  man,"  observed 
Mr.  Rivers. 

"You  don'J;  know  him — don't  pronounce  an 
opinion  upon  him,"  I  said  with  warmth. 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered  quietly ;  "  and 
indeed  rny  head  is  otherwise  occupied  than 
with  him  :  I  have  my  talo  to  finish.  Since  you 
won't  ask  the  governess's  name,  I  must  tell  it 
of  my  own  accord — stay — I  have  it  here — it  is 
always  more  satisfactory  to  see  important 
points  written  down  fairly  committed  to  black 
and  white." 

And  the  pocket-book  was  again  deliberately 
produced,  opened,  sought  through  ;  from  ono 
of  its  compartments  was  extracted  a  shabby 
slip  of  paper,  hastily  torn  off;  I  recognized  in 
its  texture  and  its  stains  of  ultra-marine,  and 
lake,  and  vermillion.  the  ravished  margin  of 
the  portrait-cover.  He  got  up,  held  it  close  to 
my  eyes ;  and  I  read,  traced  in  Indian  ink,  in 
my  own  liandwriting,  the  words  "  J.\ne  Eyre" 
— the  work  doubtless  of  some  irioment  of  ab- 
straction. 

"  Briggs  wrote  to  me  of  a  Jane  Eyre,"  he 
said  ;  "  the  advertisements  demanded  a  Jane 
Eyre ;  I  knew  a  Jane  Elliot.  I  confess  I  had 
my  suspicions;  but  it  was  only  yesterday  after- 
noon they  were  at  once  resolved  into  certainty. 
You  own  the  name  and  renounce  the  alias  1" 

"  Yes — yes — but  where  is  Mr.  Briggs !  Hft, 
perhaps,  knows  more  of  Mr.  Rochester  than 
you  do." 

"  Briggs  is  in  London ;  I  should  doubt  his 
knowing  any  thing  at  all  about  Mr.  Rochester; 
it  is  not  in  Mr.  Rochester  he  is  interested. 
Meantime  you  forget  essential  points  in  pursu- 
ing trifles  ;  you  do  not  inquire  why  Mr.  Briggs 
sought  after  you — what  he  wanted  with  you." 

"Well,  what  did  ha  want !" 

"  Merely  to  tell  you  that  your  uncle,  Mr. 
Eyre  of  Madeira,  is  dead  ;  that  he  has  left  you 
all  his  property,  and  that  you  are  now  rich — 
merely  that — nothing  more." 

"1  !  rich?" 

"  Yes,  you,  rich — quite  an  heiress." 

Silence  succeeded. 

"  You  must  prove  your  identity,  of  roursei" 
resumed  St.  John  presently;  "a  step  which 
will  offer  no  difficulties ;  you  can  then  enter  oa 


JANE  EYRE. 


147 


immediate  possession.  Your  fortune  is  vested 
in  the  English  funds ;  Briggs  has  the  will  and 
the  necessary  documents." 

Here  was  a  new  card  turned  up  !  It  is  a  fine 
thing,  reader,  to  be  lifted  in  a  moment  from  in- 
digence to  wealth — a  very  fine  thing  ;  but  not 
a  matter  one  can  comprehend,  or  consequently 
enjoy,  all  at  once.  And  then  there  are  other 
chances  in  life  far  more  thrilling  and  rapture- 
giving  ;  this  is  solid,  an  afiair  of  the  actual 
world,  nothing  ideal  about  it ;  all  its  associa- 
tions are  solid  and  sober,  and  its  manifestations 
are  the  same.  One  does  not  jump,  and  spring, 
and  shout  hurrah  !  at  hearing  one  has  got  a 
fortune  ;  one  begins  to  consider  responsibilities, 
and  to  ponder  business ;  on  a  base  of  steady 
satisfaction  rise  certain  grave  cares — and  we 
contain  ourselves,  and  brood  over  our  bliss 
with  a  solemn  brow. 

Besides,  the  words  Legacy,  Bequest,  go  side 
by  side  svith  the  words  Death,  Funeral.  My 
uncle,  I  had  heard,  was  dead — my  only  relative  ; 
ever  since  being  made  aware  of  his  existence, 
I  had  cherished  the  hope  of  one  day  seeing 
him ;  now,  I  never  should.  And  then  this 
money  came  only  to  me ;  not  to  me  and  a  re- 
joicing family,  but  to  my  isolated  svlf.  It  was 
a  grand  boon,  doubtless;  and  independence 
would  be  glorious — yes,  I  felt  that— that  thought 
swelled  my  heart." 

"  You  unbend  your  forehead  at  last,"  said 
Mr.  Rivers  ;  "  I  thought  Medusa  had  looked  at 
you,  and  tliat  you  were  turning  to  stone — 
perhaps  now  you  will  ask  how  much  you  are 
Worth?" 

"  How  much  am  I  worth?" 

"Oh,  a  trifle  !  Nothing  of  course  to  speak 
of — twenty  thousand  pounds,  I  think  they  say 
—but  what  is  that?" 

"  Twenty  thousand  pounds  !'' 

Here  was  a  new  stunner — I  had  been  cal- 
oulating  on  four  or  five  thousand.  This  news 
actually  took  my  breath  for  a  moment ;  Mr. 
St.  John,  whom  I  had  never  heard  laugh  be- 
fore, laughed  now. 

"Well,"  said  he,  if  you  had  committed  a 
murder,  and  I  had  told  you  your  crime  was 
discovered,  you  could  scarcely  look  more 
aghast." 

"  It  is  a  large  sum — don't  you  think  there  is 
a  mistake?" 
.  "  No  mistake  at  all." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  read  the  figures  wrong 
—it  maybe  2000?" 

"  It  is  written  in  letters,  not  figures — twenty 
thousand." 

I  again  felt  rather  like  an  individual  of  but 
average  gastronomical  powers  silting  down  to 
feast  alone  at  a  table  spread  with  provisions  for 
a  hundred.  Mr.  Rivers  rose  now  and  put  his 
cloak  on. 

_"  If  it  were  not  such  a  very  wild  night,"  he 
said,  "  I  would  send  Hannah  down  to  keep  you 
company ;  you  look  too  desperately  miserable 
to  be  left  alone.  But  Hannah,  poor  woman  ! 
could  not  stride  the  drifts  so  well  as  I ;  her 
legs  are  not  quite  .so  long ;  so  I  must  e'en 
leave  you  to  your  sorrows.     Good-nigbt." 

He  was  lifting  the  latch  ;  a  sudden  thought 
occurred  to  me. 

"  Stop  one  minute !"  I  cried. 


"  It  puzzles  me  to  know  why  Mr.  Briggs 
wrote  to  you  about  me  ;  or  how  he  knew  you, 
or  could  fancy  that  you,  living  in  such  an  out- 
of-the-way  place,  had  the  power  to  aid  in  my 
discovery." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  a  clergyman,"  he  said  ;  "  and  the 
clergy  are  often  appealed  to  about  odd  matters." 
Again  the  latch  rattled. 

"  No ;  that  does  not  satisfy  me !"  I  exclaim- 
ed;  and,  indeed,  there  was  something  in  the 
hasty  and  unexplanatory  reply,  which,  instead 
of  allaying,  piqued  my  curiosity  more  than  ever. 
"  It  is  a  very  strange  piece  of  business,"  I 
added  ;  "  I  must  know  more  about  it." 
"Another  time." 

"  No  ;  to-night !  to-night !"  and  as  he  turned 
from  the  door,  I  placed  myself  between  it  and 
him.     He  looked  rather  embarrassed. 

"  You  certainly  shall  not  go  till  you  have 
told  me  all!"  I  said. 

"  I  would  rather  not,  just  now." 
"  You  shall !  you  must !" 
"  I  would  rather  Diana  or  Mary  informed 
you." 

Of  course  these  objections  wrought  my 
eagerness  to  a  climax  ;  gratified  it  must  be, 
and  that  without  delay  ;  and  I  told  him  so. 

"  But  I  appri.sed  you  that  I  was  a  hardman,'' 
said  he,  "  difficult  to  persuade." 

"  And  I  am  a  hard  woman — impossible  to  put 
off." 

"And  then,"  he  pursued,  "I  am  cold;  no 
fervor  infects  me." 

"Wiiereas  I  am  hot,  and  fire  dissolves  ice. 
The  blaze  there  has  thawed  all  the  snow  from 
your  cloak  ;  by  the  same  token,  it  has  streamed 
on  to  my  floor,  and  made  it  like  a  trampled 
street.  As  you  hope  ever  to  be  forgiven,  Mr. 
Rivers,  the  high  crime  and  misdemeanor  of 
spoiling  a  sanded  kitchen,  tell  me  what  I  wish 
to  know." 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  I  yield— if  not  to 
your  earnestness,  to  your  perseverance  —  as 
stone  is  worn  by  continual  dropping.  Besides, 
you  must  know  some  day — as  well  now  as 
later.     Your  name  is  Jane  Eyre  ?" 

"  Of  course  ;  that  was  all  settled  before." 
"You  are   not,  perhaps,  aware  that  I  am 
your  namesake? — that  I  was  christened   St. 
John  Eyre  Rivers?" 

"No,  indeed  I  I  remember  now  seeing  Iha 
letter  E  comprised  in  your  initials  written  in 
books  you  have  at  different  limes  lent  me  ;  but 
I  never  asked  for  what  name  it  stood.  But 
what  then  ?     Surely—" 

I  stopped  ;  I  could  not  trust  myself  to  enter- 
tain, much  less  to  express,  the  thought  that 
rushed  upon  me — that  einbodied  itself— that, 
in  a  second,  stood  out  a  strong,  solid  probabil- 
ity. Circumstances  knit  themselves,  fitted 
themselves,  shot  into  order;  the  chain  that  had 
been  lying  hitherto  a  formless  lump  of  links, 
was  drawn  out  straight — every  ring  was  per- 
fect, the  connection  complete.  I  knew,  by  in. 
stinct,  how  the  r.iatter  stood,  before  St.  John 
had  said  another  word  ;  but  I  can  not  expect 
the  reader  to  have  the  same  intuitive  percep- 
tion, so  I  must  repeat  his  explanation. 

"^My  mother's  name  was  Eyre;  she  had  two 
brothers;  one  a  clergyman,  who  married  Miss 
Jane  Reed,  of  Gateshead  ;  ihe  other,  John 
Eyre,  esq.,  merchant,  late  of  Funchal,  Madeira. 


148 


JANE  EYRE. 


Mr.  Briggs,  being  Mr.  Eyre's  solicitor,  wrote  to 
us  last"  August  to  inform  us  of  our  uncle's 
death  ;  and  to  say  that  he  had  left  his  property 
to  his  brother  the  clergyman's  orphan  daughter ; 
overlooking  us,  in  consequence  of  a  quarrel, 
never  forgiven,  between  him  and  my  father. 
He  wrote  again  a  few  weeks  since,  to  intimate 
that  the  heiress  was  lost ;  and  asking  if  we 
knew  any  thing  of  her.  A  name  casually  writ- 
ten on  a  slip  of  paper  has  enabled  me  to  find 
her  out.  You  know  the  rest."  Again  he  was 
goinjr,  but  1  set  my  back  against  the  door. 

"  Do  let  mc  speak,"  I  said ;  "  let  me  have 
one  moment  to  draw  breath  and  reflect."  I 
paused — he  stood  before  me,  hat  in  hand,  look- 
ing composed  enough.     I  resumed — 

"Your  mother  was  my  father's  sister." 

"Yes." 

"My  aunt,  consequently  1" 

He  bowed. 

"My  uncle  John  was  your  uncle  John1 
You,  Diana,  and  Mary,  are  his  sister's  chil- 
dren, as  I  am  his  brother's  child  1' 

"Undeniably." 

"  You  three,  then,  are  my  cousins ;  half  our 
blood  on  each  side  flows  from  the  same 
Bource?" 

"  We  are  cousins  ;  yes." 

I  surveyed  him.  It  seemed  I  had  found  a 
brother  ;  one  I  could  be  proud  of — one  I  could 
love  ;  a.nd  two  sisters,  whose  qualities  were 
8uch,  that  when  I  knew  them  but  as  mere 
strangers,  they  had  inspired  mc  with  genuine 
afl"ection  and  admiration.  The  two  girls,  on 
whom,  kneeling  down  on  the  wet  ground,  and 
looking  through  the  low,  latticed  window  of 
Moor  House  kitchen,  I  had  gazed  with  so  bitter 
a  mi.\ture  of  interest  and  despair,  were  my 
near  kinswomen  ;  and  the  young  and  stately 
gentleman  who  had  found  me  almost  dying  at 
his  threshold  was  my  blood  relation.  Glorious 
discovery  to  a  lonely  wretch  !  This  was  wealth 
indeed  ! — wealth  to  the  heart ! — a  mine  of  pure, 
genial  aflections.  This  was  a  blessing,  bright, 
vivid,  and  exhilarating  I — not  like  the  ponder-, 
ous  gift  of  gold — rich  and  welcome  enough  in 
its  way,  but  sobering  from  its  weight.  'I  now 
clapped  my  hands  in  sudden  joy — my  pulse 
bounded,  my  veins  thrilled. 

"  Oil,  I  am  glad  ! — I  am  glad  !"  I  exclaimed. 

St.  John  smiled.  "  Did  1  not  say  you  neg- 
lected essential  points  to  pursue  trifles?"  he 
asked.  "  You  were  serious  when  I  told  you 
you  had  got  a  fortune ;  and  now,  for  a  matter 
of  no  moment,  you  are  excited." 

"What  can  you  mean?  It  may  be  of  no 
moment  to  you  ;  you  have  sisters,  and  don't 
care  for  a  cousin  ;  but  I  had  nobody  ;  and  now 
three  relations — or  two,  if  you  don't  choose  to 
be  counted — are  born  into  my  worl(},  full  grown. 
I  say  again,  I  am  glad  !" 

I  walked  fast  througli  the  room  ;  I  stopped, 
half  suffocated  with  the  thoughts  that  rose 
faster  than  I  could  receive,  comprehend,  settle 
thorn ;  thoughts  of  what  might,  could,  would, 
and  should  be,  and  that  ere  long.  I  looked  at 
the  blank  wall ;  it  seemed  a  sky,  thick  with 
ascending  stars — every  one  lighted  me  to  a 
purpose  or  dHight.  Those  who  had  saved  my 
life,  whom,  till  this  hour,  1  had  loved  barrenly, 
I  could  now  benefit.  They  were  under  a  yoke  ; 
I  could   free   ihem ;    ihey   were   scattered— 1 


could  reunite  them  —  the  independence,  the 
affluence  which  was  mine,  might  be  theirs  too. 
Were  we  not  four?  Twenty  thousand  pountla 
shared  equally,  would  be  five  thousand  each — 
enough  and  to  spare  ;  justice  would  be  done — 
mutual  happiness  secured.  Now  the  wealtk 
did  not  weigh  on  me ;  now  it  was  not  a  mere 
bequest  of  coin — it  was  a  legacy  of  life,  hope, 
enjoyment. 

How  I  looked  while  these  ideas  were  taking 
my  spirit  by  storm,  I  can  not  tell ;  but  I  per- 
ceived soon  that  Mr.  Rivers  had  placed  a  chair 
behind  me,  and  was  gently  attempting  to  make 
me  sit  down  on  it.  He  also  advised  me  to  be 
composed.  I  scorned  the  insinuation  of  help- 
lessness and  distraction,  shook  off  his  hand, 
and  began  to  walk  about  again. 

"Write  to  Diana  and  Mary  to-morrow,"  I 
said,  "and  tell  them  to  come  home  directly; 
Diana  said  they  would  both  consider  them- 
selves rich  with  a  thousand  pounds,  so  with 
five  thousand,  they  will  do  very  well." 

"  Tell  me  where  I  can  get  you  a  glass  of 
water,"  said  St.  John  ;  "  you  must  really  make 
an  effort  to  tranquilize  your  feelings." 

"  Nonsense  !  and  what  sort  of  an  effect  will 
the  bequest  have  on  you  1  Will  it  keep  you  ia 
England,  induce  you  to  marry  Miss  Oliver,  ~-«?i 
settle  down  like  an  ordinary  morlall" 

"  You  wander  ;  your  head  becomes  confused. 
I  have  been  too  abrupt  in  communicating 
the  news ;  it  has  excited  you  beyond  your 
strength." 

"Mr.  Rivers!  you  quite  put  me  out  of  pa- 
tience ;  I  am  rational  enough  ;  it  is  you  who 
misunderstand  ;  or,  rather,  who  afllsct  to  mis- 
understand." 

"  Perhaps  if  you  explained  yourself  a  little 
more  fully,  I  should  comprehend  better." 

"  Explain  !  AVhat  is  there  to  explain  T  Yon 
can  not  fail  to  see  that  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
the  sum  in  question,  divided  equally  between 
the  nephew  and  three  nieces  of  our  uncle,  will 
give  five  thousand  to  each  1  What  I  want 
is,  that  you  should  write  to  your  sisters  and 
tell  them  of  the  fortune  that  has  accrued  to 
them." 

"  To  you,  you  mean." 

"  I  have  intimated  my  view  of  the  case  ;  I 
am  incapable  of  taking  any  other.  I  am  not 
brutally  selfish,  blindly  unjust,  or  fiendishly  un- 
grateful. Besides,  I  am  resolved  I  will  have  a 
home  and  connections.  I  like  Moor  House, 
and  I  will  live  at  Moor  House ;  I  like  Diana 
and  Mary,  and  I  will  attach  myself  for  life  to 
Diana  and  Mary.  It  would  please  and  benefit 
me  to  have  five  thousand  pounds ;  it  would 
torment  and  oppress  me  to  have  twenty  thou- 
sand; which,  moreover,  could  never  be  mine 
in  justice,  though  it  might  in  law.  I  abandon 
to  you,  then,  what  is  absolutely  superfluous  to 
me.  Let  there  be  no  opposition,  and  no  dis- 
cussion about  it ;  let  us  agree  among  each 
ol'lier,  and  decide  the  point  at  once." 

"  This  is  acting  on  first  impulses  ;  you  mtist 
lake  days  to  consider  such  a  matter,  ere  your 
word  can  be  regarded  as  valid." 

'•  Oh  I  if  all  you  doubt  is  my  sincerity,  I  am 
easy  ;  yoi^see  the  justice  of  the  case  !" 

"  I  do  see  a  certain  justice ;  but  it  is  con- 
trary to  all  custom.  Besides,  the  entire  fortune 
is  your  right ;  my  uncle  gained  it  by  his  own 


JANE  EYRE. 


149 


efforts ;  he  was  free  to  leave  it  to  whom  he 
wouW :  he  left  it  to  you.  After  all,  justice 
permits  you  to  keep  it ;  you  may,  with  a  clear 
conscience,  consider  it  absolutely  your  own." 

"  With  me,"  said  I,  "  it  is  fully  as  much  a 
matter  of  feeling  as  of  conscience  :  I  must  in- 
dulge my  feelings,  I  so  seldom  have  had  an 
opportunity  of  doing  so.  Were  you  to  argue, 
object,  and  annoy  me  for  a  year,  I  could  not 
forego  the  delicious  pleasure  of  which  I  have 
caught  a  glimpse — that  of  repaying,  in  part,  a 
mighty  obligation,  and  winning  to  myself  life- 
long friends." 

"  You  think  so  now,"  rejoined  St.  John,  "  be- 
cause you  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  possess, 
nor  consequently  to  enjoy  wealth ;  you  can  not 
form  a  notion  of  the  importance  twenty  thou- 
sand pounds  would  give  you ;  of  the  place  it 
would  enable  you  to  take  in  society ;  of  the 
prospects  it  would  open  to  you ;  you  can  not — " 

"And  you,"  I  interrupted,  "can  not  at  all 
imagine  the  craving  I  have  for  fraternal  and 
sisterly  love.  I  never  had  a  home,  I  never  had 
brothers  or  sisters  ;  I  must  and  will  have  them 
now :  you  are  not  reluctant  to  admit  me  and 
own  me,  are  you  V 

"  Jane,  I  will  be  your  brother — my  sisters 
will  be  your  sisters — without  stipulating  for 
this  sacrifice  of  your  just  rights." 

"  Brother  1  Yes,  at  the  distance  of  a  thou- 
sand leagues  !  Sisters  !  Yes,  slaving  among 
strangers !  I,  wealthy — gorged  with  gold  I 
never  earned  and  do  not  merit !  You,  penni- 
less !  Famous  equality  and  fraternization  ! 
Close  union  !    Intimate  attachment !" 

"  But,  Jane,  your  aspirations  after  family 
ties  and  domestic  happiness  may  be  realized 
otherwise  than  by  the  means  you  contemplate ; 
you  may  marry." 

"  Nonsense  again  !  Marry  !  I  don't  want 
to  marry,  and  never  shall  marry." 

"  That  is  saying  too  much  ;  such  hazardous 
affirmations  are  a  proof  of  the  excitement  un- 
der which  you  labor." 

"  It  is  not  saying  too  much  ;  I  know  what  I 
feel,  and  how  averse  are  my  inclinations  to  the 
bare  thought  of  marriage.  No  one  would  take 
me  for  love  ;  and  I  will  not  be  regarded  in  the 
light  of  a  mere  money-speculation.  And  I  do 
not  w-ot  a  stranger — unsympathizing,  alien, 
different  from  me  ;  I  want  my  kindred — those 
with  whom  I  have  full  fellow-feeling.  Say 
again  you  will  be  my  brother;  when  you  ut- 
tered ilie  words  I  was  satisfied,  happy  ;  repeat 
them,  if  you  can,  repeat  them  sincerely." 

"  1  think  I  can.  I  know  I  have  always  loved 
my  own  sisters,  and  I  know  on  what  my 
aflecliiin  for  them  is  grounded — respect  for 
their  worth  and  admiration  of  their  talents. 
You,  too,  have  principle  and  mind  :  your  tastes 
and  habits  resemble  Diana's  and  Mary's  ;  your 
presence  is  always  agreeable  to  me  ;  in  your 
conversation  I  have  already  for  some  time 
found  a  salutary  solace.  I  feel  I  can  easily 
and  naturally  make  room  in  my  heart  for  you 
as  my  third  and  youngest  sister." 

"  Thank  you  ;  that  contents  me  for  to-night. 
Now  you  had  better  go  ;  for  if  you  stay  longer, 
you  will  perhaps  irritate  me  afresh  by  some 
mistrustful  scruple." 

"And  the  school.  Miss  Eyre?  It  must  now 
be  shut  up,  I  suppose  V 


"  No.  I  will  retain  my  post  of  mistress  till 
you  get  a  substitute." 

He  smiled  approbation ;  we  shook  hands;, 
and  he  took  leave. 

I  need  not  narrate  in  detail  the  further 
struggles  I  had,  and  arguments  I  used,  to  get 
matters  regarding  the  legacy  settled  as  I 
wished.  My  task  was  a  very  hard  one ;  but, 
as  I  was  absolutely  resolved — as  my  cousins 
saw  at  length  that  my  mind  was  really  and 
immutably  fixed  on  making  a  just  division  of 
the  property — as  they  must  in  their  owa 
hearts  have  felt  the  equity  of  the  intention ; 
and  must,  besides,  have  been  innately  con- 
scious that  in  my  place  they  would  have  dona 
precisely  what  I  wished  to  do — they  yielded  at 
length  so  far  as  to  consent  to  put  the  affair  to 
arbitration.  The  judges  chosen  were  Mr. 
Oliver  and  an  able  lawyer ;  both  coincided 
in  my  opinion ;  I  carried  my  point.  The  in- 
struments of  transfer  were  drawn  out ;  St. 
John,  Diana,  Mary,  and  I,  each  became  pos- 
sessed of  a  competency. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

It  was  near  Christmas  by  the  time  all  was 
settled ;  the  season  of  general  holyday  ap- 
proached. I  now  closed  Morton  school,  taking 
care  that  the  parting  should  not  be  barren  on 
my  side.  Good  fortune  opens  the  hand  as  well 
as  the  heart  wonderfully  ;  and  to  give  some- 
what when  we  have  largely  received,  is  but  to 
afford  a  vent  to  the  unusual  ebullition  of  the 
sensations.  I  had  long  felt  with  pleasure  that 
many  of  my  rustic  scholars  liked  me,  and 
when  we  parted,  that  consciousness  was  con- 
firmed ;  they  manifested  their  affection  plainly 
and  strongly.  Deep  was  my  gratification  to 
find  I  had  really  a  place  in  their  unsophisticated 
hearts ;  I  promised  them  that  never  a  week 
should  pass  in  future  that  I  did  not  visit  them, 
and  give  them  an  hour's  teaching  in  their 
school. 

Mr.  Rivers  came  up,  as — having  seen  the 
classes,  now  numbering  sixty  girls,  file  out  be- 
fore me,  and  locked  the  door — I  stood  with  the 
key  in  my  hand,  exchanging  a  few  words  of 
special  farewell  with  some  half  dozen  of  my 
best  scholars,  as  decent,  respectable,  modest, 
and  well-informed  young  women  as  could  be 
found  in  the  ranks  of  the  British  peasantry. 
And  that  is  saying  a  great  deal  ;  for,  after  all, 
the  British  peasantry  are  the  best  taught,  best 
mannered,  most  self- respecting  of  any  in  Eu- 
rope ;  since  those  days  I  have  seen  paysahnes 
and  Bduerinnen,  and  the  best  of  them  seemed 
to  me  ignorant,  coarse,  and  besotted,  com- 
pared with  my  Morton  girls. 

"  Do  you  consider  you  have  got  your  reward 
for  a  season  of  e.vertion  1"  asked  Mr.  Rivers 
when  they  were  gone.  "Does  not  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  done  some  real  good  in 
your  day  and  generation  give  pleasure!"    .    ,^ 

"  Doubtless."  "^"'^ 

"And  you  have  only  toiled  a  few  months! 
Would  not  a  life  devoted  to  the  task  of  regen- 
erating your  race  be  well  spent  V 

"  Yes,"  I  said  ;  "  but  I  could  not  go  on  for- 
ever so  ;  I  want  to  enjoy  my  own  faculties  as 
well  as  to  cultivate  those  of  other  people.     I 


150 


JANE  EYRE. 


must  enjoy  them  now  :  don't  n^call  either  my 
mind  or  body  to  the  school.  I  a..n  out  of  it  and 
disposed  for  full  holyday." 

He  looked  grave.  "  What  nowt  ^What  sud- 
den eagerness  is  this  you  evince  1  What  are 
you  going  to  do  1" 

"  To  be  active — as  active  as  I  can.  And  first 
1  must  beg  you  to  set  Hannah  at  liberty,  and  get 
somebody  else  to  wait  on  you." 

"  Do  you  want  her  ?" 

"  Yes,  to  go  with  me  to  Moor  House.  Diana 
and  Mary  will  be  at  home  in  a  week,  and  I  want 
to  have  every  thing  in  order  against  their  ar- 
rival." 

"  I  understand  :  I  thought  you  were  for  flying 
off  on  some  e.vcursion.  It  is  better  so ;  Hannah 
shall  go  with  you." 

"  Tell  her  to  be  ready  by  to-morrow,  then ;  and 
here  is  the  school-room  key ;  I  will  give  you 
the  key  of  my  collage'in  the  morning." 

He  took  it.  "  You  give  it  up  very  gleefully," 
said  he  ;  "I  don't  quite  understand  your  light- 
heartedness,  because  I  can  not  tell' what  em- 
ployment you  propose  to  yourself  as  a  substitute 
for  the  one  you  are  relinquishing.  What  aim, 
what  purpose,  what  ambition  in  life  have  you 
now?" 

"  My  first  aim  will  be  to  clean  down  (do  you 
comprehend  the  full  force  of  the  expression?) 
to  clean  down  Moor  House  from  chamber  to  cel- 
lar ;  my  next  to  rub  it  up 'with  bees- wax,  oil, 
and  an  indefinite  number  of  cloths,  till  it  glitters 
again  ;  my  third,  to  arrange  every  chair,  table, 
bed,  carpet,  with  mathematical  precision  ;  after- 
ward I  shall  go  near  to  ruin  you  in  coals  and 
peat  to  keep  up  good  fires  in  every  room  ;  and, 
lastlyj  the  two  days  preceding  that  on  which 
your  sisters  are  expected  will  be  devoted  by 
Hannah  and  me  to  such  a  beating  of  eggs,  sort- 
ing of  currants,  grating  of  spices,  compounding 
of  Christmas  cakes,  chopping  up  of  materials 
for  mince-pies,  and  solemnizing  of  other  culi- 
nary rites,  as  w-ords  can  convey  but  an  inade- 
quate notion  of  to  the  uninitiated  like  you.  My 
purpose,  in  short,  is  to  have  all  things  in  an  ab- 
solutely perfect  state  of  readiness  for  Diana  and 
Mary,  before  next  Thursday  ;  and  my  ambition 
is  to  give  them  a  beau  ideal  of  a  welcome  when 
they  come." 

St.  John  smiled  slightly ;  -  still  he  was  dis- 
satisfied. ■    - 

"  It  is  all  very  well  for  the  present,"  said 
he  ;  "  but,  seriously,  I  trust  that  when  the  first 
flush  of  vivacity  is  over,  you  will  look  a  little 
higher  than  domestic  endearments  and  house- 
hold joys." 

"  The  best  things  the  world  has  !"  I  inter- 
rupted. 

"  No,  Jane,  no  ;  this  world  is  not  the  scene 
of  fruition — do  not  attempt  to  make  it  so  ;  nor 
of  rest — do  not  turn  slothful." 

"  I  mean,  on  the  contrary,  to  be  busy." 

"Jane,  I  excuse  you  for  the  present;  two 
months'  grace  I  allow  you  for  the  full  enjoy- 
ment of  your  new  position,  and  for  pleasing 
yourself  with  this  late-found  charm  of  relation- 
ship ;  but  then  I  hope  you  will  begin  to  look 
beyond  Moor  House  and  Morton,  and  sisterly 
society,  and  the  selfish  calm  and  sensual  com- 
fort ol  civilized  affluence.  I  hope  your  ener- 
gies will  then  once  more  trouble  you  with  their 
strength." 


I  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  "  St.  John." 
I  said,  "  I  think  you  are  almost  wicked  to  talk 
so.  I  am  disposed  to  be  as  content  as  a  queei^ 
and  you  try  to  stir  me  up  to  restlessness  !  To 
what  end?" 

"To  the  end  of  turning  to  profit  the  talents 
which  God  has  committed  to  your  keeping,  and 
of  which  he  will  surely  one  day  demand  a  strict 
account.  Jane,  I  shall  watch  you  closely  and 
anxiously — I  warn  you  of  that.  And  try  to 
restrain  the  disproportionate  fervor  with  which 
you  throw  yourself  into  commonplace  home 
pleasures.  Don't  cling  so  tenaciously  to  ties 
of  the  flesh  ;  save  your  constancy  and  ardor 
for  an  adequate  cause  ;  forbear  to  waste  them 
on  trite,  transient  objects.  Do  you  hear, 
Janel" 

"Yes  ;  just  as  if  you  were  speaking  Greek. 
I  feel  I  have  adequate  cause  to  be  happy,  and  I 
will  be  happy.     Good-bye  !" 

Happy  at  Moor  House  I  was,  and  hard  I 
worked,  and  so  did  Hannah ;  she  was  charmed 
to  see  how  jovial  I  could  be  amid  the  bustle  of 
a  house  turned  topsy-turvy — how  I  could  brush, 
and  dust,  and  clean,  and  cook.  And  really,  af- 
ter a  day  or  two  of  confusion  worse  confounded, 
it  was  delightful,  by  degrees,  to  invoke  order 
from  the  chaos  ourselves  had  made.  I  had 
previously  taken  a  journey  to  S ,  to  pur- 
chase some  new  furniture  ;  my  cousins  having 
given  me  carte-blanche  to  effect  what  alterations 
I  pleased,  and  a  sum  having  been  set  aside  for 
that  purpose.  The  ordinary  sitting-room  and 
bed-rooms  I  left  much  as  they  were,  for  I  knew 
Diana  and  Mary  would  derive  more  pleasure 
from  seeing  again  the  old  homely  tables,  and 
chairs,  and  beds,  than  from  the  spectacle  of  the 
.smartest  innovations.  Still  some  novelty  waa 
necessary,  to  give  to  their  return  the  piquancy 
with  which  I  wished  it  to  be  invested.  Dark, 
handsome,  new  carpets  and  curtains,  an  ar- 
rangement of  some  carefully-selected  antique 
ornaments  in  porcelain  and  bronze,  new  cover- 
ings, and  mirrors,  and  dressing-cases  for  (he 
toilet-tables,  answered  the  end — they  looked 
fresh  without  being  glaring.  A  spare  parlor 
and  bed-room  I  refurnished  entirely,  with  old 
mahogany  and  crimson  upholstery  ;  I  laid  can- 
vas on  the  passage  and  carpets  on  the  stairs. 
When  all  was  finished,  I  thought  Moor  House 
as  complete  a  model  of  bright,  modest  snug- 
ness  within,  as  it  was,  at  this  season,  a  speci- 
men of  wintry  waste  and  desert  dreariness 
without. 

The  eventful  Thursday  at  length  came.  They 
were  expected  about  dark,  and,  ere  dusk,  fires 
were  lighted  up  stairs  and  below  ;  the  kitchen 
was  in  perfect  trim  ;  Hannah  and  I  were  dress- 
ed, and  all  was  in  readiness. 

St.  John  arrived  first.  I  had  entreated  him 
to  keep  quite  clear  of  the  house  till  every  thing 
was  arranged  ;  and,  indeed,  the  bare  idea  of  the 
commotion,  at  once  sordid  and  trivial,  going  on 
within  its  walls  sufiiced  to  scare  him  to  es- 
trangement. Ho  found  me  in  the  kitchen, 
watching  the  progress  of  certain  cakes  for  tea, 
tlien  baking.  Approaching  the  hearth,  he  asked 
"  If  I  was  at  last  satisfied  with  housemaid's 
work  V  I  answered  by  inviting  him  to  accom- 
pany me  on  a  general  inspection  of  the  result 
of  my  labors.  With  some  difficulty  I  got  him 
to  make  the  tour  of  the  bouse.    He  just  looked 


JANE  EYRE. 


151 


in  at  the  doors  I  opened  ;  and  when  he  had 
wandered  up  stairs  and  down  stairs,  he  said  I 
inust  have  gone  through  a  great  deal  of  fatigue 
and  trouble  to  have  effected  such  considerable 
changes  in  so  short  a  time  ;  but  not  a  syllable 
did  he  utter  indicating  pleasure  in  the  improved 
aspect  of  his  abode. 

This  silence  damped  me.  I  thought  perhaps 
the  alterations  had  disturbed  some  old  associa- 
tions he  valued.  I  inquired  whether  this  was 
the  case  :  no  doubt  in  a  somewhat  crest-fallen 
tone. 

"  Not  at  all ;  he  had,  on  the  contrary,  re- 
marked that  I  had  scrupulously  respected  every 
association  :  he  feared,  indeed,  I  must  have  be- 
stowed more  thought  on  the  matterthan  it  was 
worth.  How  many  minutes,  for  instance,  had 
I  devoted  to  studying  the  arrangement  of  this 
very  roomi  By  the  by,  could  I  tell  him  where 
such  a  book  wasl" 

I  showed  him  the  volume  on  the  shelf:  he 
took  it  down ;  and,  withdrawing  to  his  accus- 
tomed window  recess,  he  began  to  read  it. 

Now,  I  did  not  like  this,  reader.  St.  John 
was  a  good  man ;  but  I  began  to  feel  he  had 
spoken  truth  of  himself  when  he  said  he  was 
hard  and  cold.  The  humanities  and  amenities 
of  life  had  no  attraction  for  him — its  peaceful 
enjoyments  no  ciiarm.  Literally,  he  lived  only 
to  aspire — after  what  was  good  and  great,  cer- 
tainly :  but  still  he  would  never  rest,  nor  ap- 
prove of  others  resting  round  him.  As  I  looked 
at  his  lofty  forehead,  still  and  pale  as  a  white 
stone — at  his  fine  lineaments  fixed  in  study — I 
"^  comprehended,  all  at  once,  that  he  would  hard- 
ly make  a  good  husband  ;  that  it  would  be  a 
trying  thing  to  be  his  wife.  I  understood,  as 
by  inspiration,  the  nature  of  his  love  for  Miss 
Oliver  :  I  agreed  with  him  that  it  wa«  but  a  love 
of  the  senses.  I  comprehended  how  he  should 
despise  himself  for  the  feverish  influence  it  ex- 
ercised over  him  ;  how  he  should  wish  to  stifle 
and  destroy  it ;  how  he  should  mistrust  its  ever 
conducing  permanently  to  hisTiappiness  or  hers. 
I  saw  he  was  of  the  material  from  which  Na- 
ture hews  her  heroes— Christian  and  Pagan 
— her  lawgivers,  her  statesmen,  her  conquer- 
ors :  a  steadfast  bulwark  for  great  interests  to 
rest  upon  ;  but,  at  the  fireside,  too  often  a  cold, 
cumbrous  column,  gloomy  and  out  of  place. 

♦'  This  parlor  is  not  his  sphere,"  I  reflected  : 
"the  Himalayan  ridge,  or  Caffre  bush— even 
the  plague-cursed  Guinea  coast  swamp — would 
suit  him  better.  Well  may  he  eschew  the  calm 
of  domestic  life  ;  it  is  not  his  element :  there 
his  faculties  stagnate-^they  can  not  develop  or 
appear  to  advantage.  It  is  in  scenes  oi  strife 
and  danger — where  courage  is  proved,  and  en- 
ergy exercised,  and  fortitude  taxed — that  he 
will  speak  and  move,  the  leader  and  superior. 
A  merry  child  would  have  the  advantage  of  him 
on  this  hearth.  He  is  right  to  choose  a  mis- 
sionary's career — I  see  it  now." 

"  They  are  coming  !  they  are  (ioming !"  cried 
Hannah,  throwing  open  the  parlor  door.  At 
the  same  moment  old  Carlo  barked  joyfully. 
Out  I  ran.  It  was  now  dark ;  bat  a  rumbling 
of  wheels  was  audible.  Hannah  soon  had  & 
lantern  lighted.  The  vehicle  had  stopped  at 
the  wicket ;  the  driver  opened  the  door :  first 
one  well-known  form,  then  another,  stepped 
out.    In  a  minute  I  had  jny  face  uoder  their 


bonnets,  in  contact  first  with  Mary's  cheek, 
then  with  Diana's  flowing  curls.  They  laughed, 
kissed  me — then  Hannah ;  patted  Carlo,  who 
was  half  wild  with  delight ;  asked  eagerly  if  ail 
was  well ;  and,  being  assured  in  the  affirmative, 
hastened  into  the  house. 

They  were  stiff  with  their  long  and  jolting 
drive  from  Whitcross,  and  chilled  with  the 
frosty  night  air ;  but  their  pleasant  counte- 
nances expanded  to  the  cheering  fire  light. 
While  the  driver  and  Hannah  brought  in  the 
boxes,  they  demanded  St.  John.  At  this  mo- 
ment he  advanced  from  the  parlor.  They  both 
threw  their  arms  round  his  neck  at  once.  He 
gave  eaoh  one  quiet  kiss  ;  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
a  few  words  of  welcome;  stood  awhile  to  be 
talked  to  ;  and  then,  intimating  that  he  supposed 
they  would  soon  rejoin  him  in  the  parlor,  with- 
drew there  as  to  a  place  of  refuge. 

I  had  lighted  their  candles  to  go  up  stairs, 
but  Diana  had  first  to  give  hospitable  orders  re- 
specting the  driver;  this  done,  both  followed 
me.  They  were  delighted  with  the  renovation 
and  decoration  of  their  rooms ;  with  the  new 
drapery,  and  fresh  carpets,  and  rich-tinted  china 
vases  :  they  expressed  their  gratification  un- 
grudgingly. I  had  the  pleasure  of  feeling  that 
my  arrangements  met  their  wishes  exactly, 
and  that  what  I  had  done  added  a  vivid  charm 
to  their  joyous  return  home. 

Sweet  was  that  evening.  My  cousins,  full 
of  exhilaration,  were  so  eloquent  in  narrative 
and  comment,  that  their  fluency  covered  St. 
John's  taciturnity  :  he  was  sincerely  glad  to  see 
his  sisters  ;  but  in  their  glow  of  fervor  and  flow 
of  joy  he  could  not  sympathize.  The  event  of 
the  day — that  is,  the  return  of  Diana  and  Mary 
— pleased  him  ;  but  the  accompaniments  of  that 
event,  the  glad  tumult,  the  garrulous  glee  of 
reception,  irked  him :  l'  saw  he  wished  the 
calmer  morrow  was  come.  In  the  very  merid- 
ian of  the  night's  enjoyment,  about  an  hour 
after  tea,  a  rap  was  heard  at  the  door.  Hannah 
entered,  with  the  intimation  that  "  a  poor  lad 
was  come,  at  that  unlikely  time,  to  fetch  Mr. 
Rivers  to  see  his  mother,  who  was  drawing 
away." 

"  Where  does  she  live,  Hannah  V 

"  Clear  up  at  Whitcross  Brow,  almost  four 
miles  off;  and  moor  and  moss  all  the  way." 

"Tell  him  I  will  go." 

"  I'm  sure,  sir,  you  had  better  not.  It's  the 
worst  road  to  travel  after  dark  that  can  be  : 
there's  .no  track  at  all  over  the  bog.  And  then 
it  is  such  a  bitter  night — the  keenest  wind  you 
ever  felt.     You  had  better  send  word,  sir,  that 


you 


will  be  there  in  the  morning." 


But  he  was  already  in  the  passage,  putting 
on  his  cloak ;  and  without  one  objection,  one 
mnrmur,  he  departed.  It  was  then  nine  o'clock ; 
he  did  not  return  till  midnight.  Starved  and 
tired  enough  he  was,  but  he  looked  happier  than 
when  he  set  out.  He  had  performed  an  act  of 
duty  ;  made  an  exertion  ;  felt  his  own  strength 
to  do  and  deny,  and  was  on  better  terms  with 
himself 

I  am  a'fraid  the  whole  of  the  ensuing  week 
tried  his  patience.  It  was  Christmas  week; 
we  took  to  no  settled  employment,  but  spent  it 
in  a  sort  of  merry  domestic  dissipation.  The 
air  of  the  moors,  the  freedom  of  home,  the 
dawn  of  prosperity,  acted  on  Diana's  and  Mary's 


1&2 


JANE  EYRE. 


spirits  like  soms  life-giving  olixir ;  they  were 
gay  from  morning  till  noon,  and  from  noon  till 
night.  They  could  always  talk  ;  and  their  dis- 
course, witty,  pithy,  original,  had  such  charms 
for  me,  that  I  preferred  listening  to,  and  sharing 
in  it,  to  doing  any  thing  else.  St.  John  did  not 
rebuke  our  vivacity,  but  he  escaped  from  it ; 
he  was  seldom  in  the  house  ;  his  parish  was 
large,  the  population  scattered,  and  he  found 
(iaily  business  in  visiting  the  sick  and  poor  in  its 
different  districts. 

One  morning,  at  breakfast,  Diana,  after  look- 
ing a  little  pensive  for  some  minutes,  asked 
him  "  If  his  plans  were  yet  unchanged  1" 

"Unchanged  and  unchangeable,"  was  the  re- 
ply. And  he  proceeded  to  inform  us  that  his 
departure  from  England  was  now  definitively 
fixed  for  the  ensuing  year. 

"And  Rosamond  Oliver  1"  suggested  Mary  : 
the  words  seeming  to  escape  her  lips  involun- 
tarily ;  for  no  sooner  had  she  uttered  them, 
than  she  made  a  gesture  as  if  wishing  to  recall 
them.  St.  John  had  a  book  in  his  hand — it  was 
his  unsocial  custom  to  read  at  meals — he  closed 
it,  and  looked  up. 

"  Rosamond  Oliver,"  said  he,  "  is  about  to  be 
married  to  Mr.  Granby,  one  of  the  best  con- 
nected and  most  estimable  residents  in  S , 

grandson  and  heir  to  Sir  Frederic  Granby  :  I 
had  the  intelligence  from  her  father  yesterday." 

His  sisters  looked  ateachother,  andatrae;  we 
all  three  looked  at  him  :  he  was  serene  as  glass. 

"The  match  must  have  been  got  up  hastily," 
said  Diana  ;  "they  can  not  have  known  each 
other  long." 

"  But  two  months :  they  met  in  October  at 

the  county  ball  at  S .     But  where  there  are 

no  obstacles  to  a  union,  as  in  the  present  case, 
where  the  connection  is  in  every  point  desira- 
ble, delays  are  unnecessary :  they  will  be  mar- 
ried as  soon  as  S Place,  which  Sir  Frederic 

gives  up  to  them,  can  he  refitted  for  their  re- 
ception." 

The  fir-st  time  I  found  St.  John  alone  after 
this  communication,  I  felt  tempted  to  inquire  if 
the  event  distressed  him  ;  but  he  seemed  so 
little  to  need  sympathy,  that,  so  far  from  ven- 
turing to  offer  him  more,  I  experienced  some 
shame  at  the  recollection  of  what  I  liad  already 
hazarded.  Besides,  I  was  out  of  practice  in 
talking  to  him  :  his  reserve  was  again  frozen 
over,  and  my  frankness  was  congealed  beneath 
it.  He  had  not  kept  his  promise  of  treating 
me  like  his  sisters  ;  he  coniinually  made  little, 
chilling  differences  between  us,  which  did  not 
at  all  tend  to  the  development  of  cordiality  ;  in 
short,  now  that  I  was  acknowledged  his  kin.s- 
woman,  and  lived  under  the  same  roof  with 
liim,  I  felt  the  distance  between  us  to  be  far 
greater  than  when  he  had  known  me  only  as 
the  village  schoolmistress.  When  I  remem- 
bered how  far  I  had  once  been  admitted  to  his 
confidence,  I  could  hardly  comprehend  his  pres- 
ent frigidity. 

Such  being  the  case,  I  felt  not  a  little  sur- 
prised when  he  raised  liis  head  suddenly  from 
the  desk  over  which  he  was  stooping,  and  said — 

"  You  see,  Jane,  the  battle  is  fought  and  the 
victory  won." 

Startled  at  being  thus  addressed,  I  did  not 
immediately  reply  ;  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
I  answered — 


"  But  are  you  sare  you  are  not  in  the  position 
of  those  conquerors  whose  triumphs  have  cost 
them  too  dear  ^  Would  not  such  another  ruio 
youl" 

"  I  think  not — and  if  I  were,  it  does  not  much 
signify :  I  shall  never  be  called  upon  to  contend 
for  such  another.  The  event  of  the  conflict 
is  decisive  ;  my  way  is  now  clear  ;  I  thank  God 
for  it!"  So  saying,  he  returned  to  his  papers 
and  his  silence. 

As  our  mutual  happiness  (».  e. ,  Diana's,  Mary's, 
and  mine)  settled  into  a  quieter  character,  and 
we  resumed  our  usual  habits  and  regular  studies 
St.  John  stayed  more  at  home  ;  he  sat  with  ua 
in  the  same  room,  sometimes  for  hours  to- 
gether. While  Mary  drew,  Diana  pursued 
course  of  Encyclopaedic  reading  she  had  (to  my 
awe  and  amazement)  undertaken,  and  I  fagged 
away  at  German,  he  pondered  a  mystic  lore  of 
his  own — that  of  some  Eastern  tongue,  the 
acquisition  of  which  he  thought  necessary  to 
his  plans. 

Thus  engaged,  he  appeared,  sitting  in  his 
own  recess,  quiet  and  absorbed  enough ;  but 
that  blue  eye  of  his  had  a  habit  of  leaving  the 
outlandish-looking  grammar,  and  wandering 
over,  and  sometimes  fixing  upon  us,  his  fellow- 
students,  with  a  curious  intensity  of  observa- 
tion ;  if  caught,  it  would  be  instantly  withdrawn ; 
yet  ever  and  anon,  it  returned  searchingly  to 
our  table.  I  wondered  what  it  meant :  I  won- 
dered, too,  at  the  punctual  satisfaction  he  nevet 
failed  to  exhibit  on  an  occasion  that  seemed  to 
me  of  small  moment,  namely,  my  weekly  visit 
to  Morton  school ;  and  still  more  was  I  puzzled 
when,  if  the  day  was  unfavorable,  if  there  was 
snow,  or  rain,  or  high  wind,  and  his  sisters 
urged  me  not  to  go,  he  would  invariably  make 
light  of  their  solicitude,  and  encourage  me  to 
accomplish  the  task  without  regard  to  the  ele- 
ments. 

"  Jane  is  not  such  a  weakling  as  you  wauld 
make  her,"  he  would  say  ;  "  she  can  bear  a 
mountain  blast,  or  a  shower,  or  a  few  flakes  of 
snow,  as  well  as  any  of  us.  Her  constitution 
is  both  sound  and  elastic  ;  better  calculated  to 
endure  variations  of  climate  than  many  more 
robust." 

And  when  I  returned,  sometimes  a  good  deal 
tired,  and  not  a  little  weather-beaten.  I  never 
dared  complain,  because  I  saw  that  to  murmur 
would  be  to  vex  him ;  on  all  occasions  forti- 
tude pleased  him ;  the  reverse  was  a  speciaJ 
annoyance. 

One  afternoon,  however,  I  got  leave  to  stay 
at  home,  because  I  really  had  a  cold.  His  sis- 
ters were  gone  to  Morion  in  my  stead  ;  I  sat 
reading  Schiller;  he,  deciphering  his  crabbed 
Oriental  scrolls.  As  I  exchanged  a  translation 
for  an  exercise,  I  happened  to  look  his  way, 
there  1  found  myself  under  the  infiuence  of  the 
ever-watchful  blue  eye.  How  long  it  had  been 
searching  me  through  and  through,  and  over 
and  over,  I  can  not  tell;  so  keen  was  it,  and 
yet  so  cold,  I  felt  for  the  moment  superstiiious 
— as  if  I  were  sitting  in  the  room  with  some- 
thing uncanny. 

"  Jane,  what  are  you  doing  V 

"  Learning  German." 

"  I  want  you  to  give  up  German,  and  learo 
Hindostanee." 

"  You  are  not  in  earnest?" 


JANE  EYRE. 


163 


"  In  such  eanieat  that  I  must  have  it  so,  and 
I  will  tell  you  why." 

He  then  went  on  to  explain  that  Hindostanee 
was  the  language  he  was  himself  at  present 
studying ;  that  as  he  advanced,  he  was  apt  to 
forget  the  cooimencement ;  that  it  would  assist 
him  greatly  to  have  a  pupil  with  whom  he  might 
again  and  again  go  over  the  elements,  and  so 
fix  them  thoroughly  in  his  mind  ;  that  his  choice 
had  hovered  for  some  time  between  me  and  his 
sisters  ;  but  that  he  had  fixed  it  on  me,  because 
he  saw  I  could  sit  at  a  task  the  longest  of  the 
three.  Would  I  do  him  this  favor  1  I  should 
not,  perhaps,  have  to  make  the  sacrifice  long, 
as  it  wanted  now  barely  three  months  to  his 
departure. 

St.  John  was  not  a  man  to  be  lightly  refused  ;^ 
you  felt  that  every  impression  made  on  him, 
either  for  pain  or  pleasure,  was  deep-graved 
and  permanent.  I  consented.  When  Diana 
and  Mary  relumed,  the  former  found  her  schol- 
ar transferred  from  her  to  her  brother:  she 
laughed  ;  and  both  she  and  Mary  agreed  that 
St.  John  should  never  have  persuaded  them  to 
such  a  step.  He  answered,  quietly — 
.     "  I  knew  it." 

I  found  him  a  very  patient,  very  forbearing, 
and  yet  an  exacting  master:  he  expected  me 
to  do  a  great  deal,  and  when  I  fulfilled  his  ex- 
pectations he,  in  his  own  way,  fully  testified 
his  approbation.  By  degrees,  he  acquired  a 
certain  influence  over  me  that  took  away  my 
liberty  of  mind;  his  praise  and  notice  were 
more  restraining  than  his  indifference.  I  could 
no  longer  talk  or  laugh  freely  when  he  was  by, 
because  a  tiresomely  importunate  instinct  re- 
minded me  that  vivacity  (at  least  in  me)  was 
distasteful  to  him.  I  was  so  fully  aware  that 
only  serious  moods  and  occupations  were  ac- 
ceptable, that  in  his  presence  every  effort  to 
Bustain  or  follow  any  other  became  vain  ;  I  fell 
under  a  freezing  spell.  When  he  said  "go,"  I 
went;  "come,"  I  came;  "do  this,"  I  did  it. 
But  I  did  not  love  my  servitude :  I  wished, 
many  a  time,  he  had  continued  to  neglect  me. 

One  evening  when,  at  bedtime,  his  sisters 
and  I  stood  round  him,  bidding  him  good-night, 
he  kissed  each  of  ihem,  as  was  his  custom; 
and,  as  was  equally  his  custom,  he  gave  me  his 
hand.  Diana,  who  chanced  to  be  in  a  frolick- 
some  humor  (*/ie  was  not  painfully  controlled  by 
his  will  ;  for  hers,  in  another  way,  was  as 
strong),  exclaimed  : 

"Si.  John  !  you  used  to  call  Jane  your  third 
sister,  but  you  don't  treat  her  as  such  :  you 
should  kiss  her  too." 

She  pushed  me  toward  him.  I  thought  Di- 
ana very  provoking,  and  felt  uncotnfortably 
confused  ;  and  while  I  was  thus  thinking  and 
feeling,  St.  John  bent  his  head,  his  Greek  face 
was  lirouglit  to  a  level  with  mine,  his  eyes 
questioned  my  eyes  piercingly — he  kissed  ine. 
There  are  no  such  things  as  marble  kisses,  or  ice 
kisses,  or  I  should  say,  my  ecclesiastical  cous- 
in's salute  belonged  to  one  of  these  classes ; 
but  there  may  be  experiment  kisses,  and  his 
was  an  experiment  kiss.  When  given,  he 
■viewed  me  to  learn  the  result ;  it  was  not  strik- 
ing; I  am  sure  I  did  not  blush;  perhaps  I 
might  have  turned  a  little  pale,  for  I  felt  as  if 
this  kiss  were  a  seal  affixed  to  my  fetters. 
He  never  omitted  the  ceremony  afterward,  and 


the  gravity  and  quiescence  with  which  I  under- 
went it,  seemed  to  invest  it  for  him  with  a  cer- 
tain charm. 

As  for  me,  I  daily  wished  more  to  please 
him.;  but  to  do  so,  I  felt  daily  more  and  more 
that  I  must  disown  half  my  nature,  stiSe  half 
my  faculties,  wrest  my  tastes  from  their  origi- 
nal bent,  force  myself  to  the  adoption  of  pur- 
suits for  which  I  had  no  natural  vocation  He 
wanted  to  train  me  to  an  elevation  I  could 
never  reach  :  it  racked  me  hourly  to  aspire  to 
the  standard  he  uplifted.  The  thing  was  as 
impossible  as  to  mold  my  irregular  features  to 
his  correct  and  classic  pattern,  to  give  to  my 
changeable  green  eyes  the  sea-blue  tint  and 
solemn  luster  of  his  own. 

Not  his  ascendency  alone,  however,  held  me 
in  thrall  at  present.  Of  late  it  had  been  easy 
enough  for  me  to  look  sad ;  a  cankering  evil 
sat  at  my  heart  and  drained  my  happiness  at 
its  source — the  evil  of  suspense. 

Perhaps  you  think  I  had  forgotten  Mr.  Roch- 
ester, reader,  amid  these  changes  of  place  and 
fortune.  Not  for  a  moment.  His  idea  was 
still  with  me  ;  because  it  was  not  a  vapor  sun- 
shine could  disperse,  nor  a  sand-traced  effigy 
storms  could  wash  away  ;  it  was  a  name  grav- 
en on  a  tablet,  fated  to  last  as  long  as  the 
marble  it  inscribed.  The  craving  to  knove 
what  had  become  of  him  followed  me  every 
where ;  when  f  was  at  Morton,  I  re-enterefl 
my  cottage  every  evening  to  think  of  that ;  ane* 
now  at  Moor  House,  I  sought  my  bedrooir 
each  night  to  brood  over  it. 

In  the  course  of  my  necessary  correspond 
ence  with  Mr.  Briggs  about  the  will,  I  had  in 
quired  if  he  knew  any  thing  of  Mr.  Rochester* 
present  residence  and  state  of  health  ;  but,  a' 
St.  John  had  conjectured,  he  was  quite  igno- 
rant of  all  concerning  him.  I  then  wrote  to 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  entreating  information  on  thf 
subject.  I  had  calculated  with  certainty  on 
this  step  answering  my  end :  I  felt  sure  il 
would  elicit  an  early  a-nswer.  I  was  astonish- 
ed when  a  fortnight  passed  without  reply  ;  but 
when  two  months  wore  away,  and  day  after 
day  the  post  arrived  and  brought  nothing  for 
me,  I  fell  a  prey  to  the  keenest  anxiety. 

I  wrote  again  ;  there  was  a  chance  of  my  first 
letter  having  missed.  Renewed  hope  followed 
renewed  effort ;  it  shone  like  the  former  for 
some  weeks,  then,  like  it,  it  faded,  flickered ; 
not  a  line,  not  a  word  reached  me.  When 
half  a  year  wasted  in  vain  expectancy,  my 
hope  died  out ;  and  then  I  felt  dark  indeed. 

A  fine  spring  shone  round  me,  which  I  could 
not  enjoy.  Summer  approached;  Diana  tried  to 
cheer  me  ;  she  said  I  looked  ill,  and  wished  to 
accompany  me  to  the  sea-side.  This  St.  John 
opposed  ;  he  said  I  did  not  want  dissipation,  I  • 
wanted  employment ;  my  present  life  was  too 
purposeless,  I  required  an  aim  :  and  I  sup- 
pose, by  way  of  supplying  deficiencies,  he  pro- 
longed still  further  my  lessons  in  Hindostanee, 
and  grew  more  urgent  in  requiring  their  ac- 
complishment ;  and  I,  like  a  fool,  never 
thought  of  resisting  him — I  could  not  resist 
him. 

One  day  I  had  come  to  my  studies  in  lower 
spirits  than  usual :  the  ebb  was  occasioned  by 
a  poignantly  felt  disappointment ;  Hannah  had 
told  me  in  the  morning  there  was  a  letter  for 


154 


JANE  EYRE. 


me,  and  when  I  went  down  to  take  it,  almost 
certain  that  the  long-looked-for  tidings  were 
vouchsafed  me  at  last,  I  found  only  an  unim- 
portant note  from  Mr.  Briggs  on  business. 
The  bitter  check  had  wrung  from  me  some 
tears;  and  now,  as  I  sat  poring  over  the  crab- 
bed characters  and  flourishing  tropes  of  an  In- 
dian scribe,  my  eyes  filled  again. 

St.  John  called  me  to  his  side  to  read ;  in 
attempting  to  do  this  my  voice  failed  me ; 
words  were  lost  in  sobs.  He  and  I  were  the 
only  occupants  of  the  parlor  ;  Diana  was  prac- 
ticing her  music  in  the  drawing-room,  Mary 
was  gardening — it  was  a  very  fine  May-day, 
clear,  sunny,  and  breezy.  My  companion  ex- 
pressed no  surprise  at  this  emotion,  nor  did  he 
question  me  as  to  its  cause ;  he  only  said  : 

••  We  will  wait  a  few  minutes,  Jane,  till  you 
are  more  composed.  And  while  I  smothered 
the  paroxysm  with  all  haste,  he  sat  calm  and 
patient,  leaning  on  his  desk  and  looking  like  a 
physician  watching  vviih  the  eye  of  science  an 
expected  and  fully  understood  crisis  in  a  pa- 
tient's malady.  Having. stifled  my  sobs,  wiped 
my  eyes,  and  muttered  something  about  not 
being  very  well  that  morning,  I  resumed  my 
task,  and  succeeded  in  completing  it.  St.  John 
put  away  my  books  and  his,  locked  his  desk, 
and  said  ; 

"Now,  Jan^,  you  shall  take  a  walk:  and 
■vrith  me." 

"  I  will  call  Diana  and  Mary." 

•'  No.  I  want  only  one  companion  this 
morning,  and  that  must  be  you  :  put  on  your 
things  ;  go  out  by  the  kitchen  door;  take  the 
road  toward  the  head  of  Marsh-Glen ;  I  will 
join  you  in  a  moment." 

I  know  no  medium  ;  I  never  in  my  life  have 
knov,'n  any  medium  in  my  dealings  with  posi- 
tive hard  characters,  antagonistic  to  my  own, 
between  absolute  submission  and  determined 
revolt.  I  have  always  faithfully  observed  the 
one,  up  to  the  very  moment  of  bursting,  some- 
times with  volcanic  vehemence,  into  the  other  ; 
and  as  neither  present  circumstances  warrant- 
ed, nor  my  present  mood  inclined  me  to  muti- 
ny, I  observed  careful  obedience  to  St.  John's 
directions  ;  and  in  ten  minutes  I  was  treading 
the  wild  track  of  tjie  glen,  side  by  side  with  him. 

The  breeze  was  from  the  west ;  it  caqae 
over  the  hills,  sweet  with  scents  of  heath  and 
rush ;  the  sky  was  of  stainless  blue ;  the 
stream  descending  the  ravine,  swelled  with 
past  spring  rains,  poured  along  plentiful  and 
clear,  catching  golden  gleams  from  the  sun, 
and  sapphire  tints  from  the  firmament.  As 
we  advanced  and  left  the  tract,  we  trod  a  soft 
turf,  mossy,  fine,  and  emerald  green,  minutely 
enameled  with  a  tiny  white  flower,  and  span- 
gled with  a  star-like  yellow  blossom ;  the  hills, 
meantime,  shut  us  quite  in  ;  for  the  glen,  to- 
ward its  head,  wound  to  their  very  core. 

"Let  us  rest  here,"  said  St.  John,  as  we 
leaqjied  the  first  stragglers  of  a  battalion  of 
rocks,  guarding  a  sort  of  pass,  beyond  which 
the  beck  rushed  down,  a  waterfall,  and  where, 
still  a  little  farther,  the  mountain  shook  ofl'  turf 
and  flower,  had  only  heath  for  raiment,  and  crag 
for  gem— where  it  exaggerated  the  wild  to  the 
savage,  and  exchanged  the  fresh  for  the  frown- 
ing—where  it  guarded  the  forlorn  hope  of  soli- 
tude, aad  a  last  refuge  for  silence. 


I  took  a  seat — St.  John  stood  near  me ;  ho 

looked  up  the  pass  and  down  the  hollow;  hia 
glance  wandered  away  with  the  stream,  and 
returned  to  traverse  the  unclouded  heaven 
which  colored  it ;  he  removed  his  hat,  let  the 
breeze  stir  his  hair  and  kiss  his  brow;  he 
seemed  in  communion  with  the  genius  of  the 
haunt ;  with  his  eye  he  bade  farewell  to  some- 
thing. 

"  And  I  shall  see  it  again,"  he  said  aloud, 
"  in  dreams,  when  I  sleep  by  the  Ganges  ;  and 
again,  in  a  more  remote  hour — when  another 
slumber  overcomes  me — on  the  shore  of  a 
darker  stream." 

Strange  words  of  a  strange  love !  An  au- 
stere patriot's  passion  for  his  fatherland  !  He 
sat  down  ;  for  half  an  hour  we  never  spoke — 
neither  he  to  me  nor  I  to  him ;  that  interval 
past,  he  recommenced : 

"Jane,  I  go  in  six  weeks;  I  have  taken  my 
berth  in  an  East  Indiaraan  which  sails  on  the 
twentieth  of  June." 

"God  will  protect  you,  for  you  have  under- 
taken his  work,"  I  answered. 

"  Yes,'-'  said  he,  "  there  is  my  glory  and  joy. 
I  am  the  servant  of  an  infallible  master ;  I  am 
not  going  out  under  human  guidance,  subject 
to  the  defective  laws  and  erring  control  of  my 
feeble  fellow-worms ;  my  king,  my  lawgiver, 
my  captain,  is  the  All-perfect :  it  seems  strange 
to  me  that  all  round  m.e  do  not  burn  to  enlist 
under  the  same  banner — to  join  in  the  same 
enterprise." 

"  All  have  not  your  powers  ;  and  it  would  be 
folly  for  the  feeble  to  wish  to  march  with  the 
strong." 

"  I  do  not  speak  to  the  feeble,  or  think  of 
them  ;  1  address  only  such  as  are  worthy  of  the 
work,  and  competent  to  accomplish  it." 

"Those  are  few  in  number,  and  difl!icult  to 
discover." 

"  You  say  truly ;  but  when  found,  it  is  right 
to  stir  them  up — to  urge  and  exhort  them  to 
the  effort — to  show  them  what  their  gifts  are, 
and  why  they  were  given — to  speak  Heaven's 
message  in  their  ear — to  oflfer  them,  direct  from 
God,  a  place  in  the  ranks  of  his  chosen." 

"  If  they  are  really  qualified  for  the  task, 
will  not  their  own  hearts  be  the  first  to  inform 
them  of  itr' 

I  felt  as  if  an  awful  charm  was  framing  round 
and  gathering  over  me  ;  I  trembled  to  hear  some 
fatal  word  spoken  which  would  at  once  declare 
and  rivet  the  spell. 

"  And  what  does  your  heart  say  1''  demanded 
St.  John. 

"  My  heart  is  mute — my  heart  is  mute,"  I 
answered,  struck  and  thrilled. 

"Then  I  must  speak  for  it,"  continued  the 
deep,  relentless  voice;  "  Jane,  come  with  me 
to  India;  come  as  my  help-meet  and  fellow- 
laborer." 

The  glen  and  sky  spun  round  ;  the  hills 
heaved  I  It  was  as  if  I  had  heard  a  summons 
from  Heaven — as  if  a  visionary  messenger,  like 
him  of  Macedonia,  had  enounced  "Come  over 
and  help  us !"  But  I  was  no  apostle,  I  could 
not  behold  the  herald,  I  could  not  receive  his 
call. 

"  Oh,  St.  John  !"  I  then  cried,  "  have  some 
mercy  !" 

I  appealed  to  one,  who,  in  the  discharge  of 


[ 


JANE  EYRE. 


155 


^  what  he  believed  his  duty,  knew  neither  mercy 
nor  remorse.     He  continued  : 

"  God  and  nature  intended  you  for  a  mis- 
sionary's wife.  It  is  not  personal  but  menial 
endowments  they  have  given  you ;  you  are 
formed  for  labor,  not  for  love.  A  missionary's 
wife  you  must — shall  be.  You  shall  be  mine  ; 
I  claim  you — not  for  my  pleasure,  but  for  my 
Sovereign's  service." 

"  I  am  not  fit  for  it ;  I  have  no  vocation,"  I 
said. 

He  had  calculated  on  these  first  objections  ; 
he  was  not  irritated  by  them.  Indeed,  as  he 
leaned  back  against  the  crag  behind  him,  folded 
his  arms  on  his  cheSt,  and  fixed  his  counte- 
nance, I  saw  he  was  prepared  for  a  long  and 
trying  opposition,  and  had  taken  in  a  stock  of 
patience  to  last  him  to  its  close — resolved, 
however,  that  that  close  should  be  conquest 
for  him. 

"  Humility,  Jane,"  said  he,  "  is  the  ground- 
work of  Christian  virtues  ;  you  say  right  that 
you  are  nor  fit  for  the  work.  Who  is  fit  for  it  1 
Or  who,  that  ever  was  truly  called,  believed 
himself  worthy  of  the  summons  1  I,  for  in- 
stance, am  but  dust  and  ashes.  With  St.  Paul 
I  acknowledge  myself  the  chiefest  of  sinners  ; 
but  I  do  not  suffer  tliis  sense  of  my  personal 
vileness  to  daunt  me.  I  know  my  Leader  ; 
that  He  is  just  as  well  as  mighty  ;  and  while 
He  has  chosen  a  feeble  instrument  to  perform 
a  great  task.  He  will,  from  the  boundless  stores 
of  His  providence,  supply  the  inadequacy  of  the 
means  to  the  e.nd.  Think  like  mc,  Jane — 
trust  like  me.  It  is  the  Rock  of  Ages  I  ask 
you  to  lean  on ;  do  not  doubt  but  it  will  bear 
the  weight  of  your  human  weakness." 

"  I  do  not  understand  a  missionary  life  ;  I 
liave  never  studied  missionary  labors." 

"There,  I,  humble  as  I  am,  can  give  you 
the  aid  you  want ;  I  can  set  you  your  task  from 
hour  to  hour  ;  stand  by  you  always  ;  help  you 
from  moment  to  moment.  This  I  could  do  in 
the  beginning  ;  soon  (for  I  know  your  powers) 
you  would  be  as  strong  and  apt  as  myself,  and 
would  not  require  my  help." 

"  But  my  powers — where  arc  they  for  this 
undertaking  1  I  do  not  feel  them.  Nothing 
speaks  or  stirs  in  mc  while  you  talk.  I  am 
sensible  of  no  light  kindling — no  life  quickening 
— no  voice  counseling  or  cheering.  Oh,  I  wish 
I  could  make  you  see  how  much  my  mind  is  at 
this  moment  like  a  rayless  dungeon,  with  one 
shrinking  fear  fettered  in  its  depths — the  fear 
of  being  persuaded  by  you  to  attempt  what  I 
can  not  accomplish  !" 

"  I  have  an  answer  for  you — hear  it.  I  have 
watched  you  ever  since  we  first  met ;  I  have 
made  you  my  study  for  ten  months.  I  have 
proved  you  in  that  time  by  sundry  tests  ;  and 
what  have  I  seen  and  elicited  1  In  the  village 
school  I  found  you  could  perform  well,  punc- 
tually, uprightly,  labor  uncongenial  to  your 
habits  and  inclinations  ;  I  saw  you  could  per- 
form it  with  capacity  and  tact ;  you  could  win 
while  you  controlled.  In  the  calm  with  which 
you  learned  you  had  become  suddenly  rich,  I 
read  a  mind  clear  of  the  vice  of  Demas  ;  lucre 
had  no  und'je  power  over  you.  In  the  resolute 
readiness  with  which  you  cut  your  wealth  into 
four  shares,  keeping  but  one  to  yourself,  and 
lelioquishing  the  three  others  to  the  claim  of 


abstract  justice,  I  recognized  a  soul  that  revel- 
ed in  the  flame  and  excitement  of  sacrifice.  In 
the  tractability  with  which,  at  my  wish,  you 
forsook  a  study  in  which  you  were  interested, 
and  adopted  another  because  it  interested  me" — 
in  the  untiring  ass^duity  with  which  you  have 
since  persevered  in  it — in  the  unflagging  energy 
and  unshaken  temper  with  which  you  have  met 
its  difficulties — I  acknowledge  the  complement 
of  qualities  I  seek.  Jane,  you  are  docile,  dili- 
gent, disinterested,  faithful,  constant,  and  cour- 
ageous ;  very  gentle,  and  very  heroic  ;  cease 
to  mistrust  yourself — I  can  trust  you  unreserv- 
edly. As  a  conductress  of  Indian  schools,  and 
a  helper  among  Indian  woman,  your  assistance 
will  be  to  me  invaluable."  » 

My  iron  shroud  contracted  round  me  ;  per- 
suasion advanced  w^ith  slow,  sure  step.  Shut 
my  eyes  as  I  would,  these  last  words  of  his 
succeeded  in  making  the  way,  which  had  seem- 
ed blocked  up,  comparatively  clear.  My  work, 
which  had  appeared  so  vague,  so  hopelessly 
diffuse,  condensed  itself  as  he  proceeded,  and 
assumed  a  definite  form  under  his  shaping 
hand.  He  waited  for  an  answer.  I  demanded 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  think  before  I  again 
hazarded  a  reply. 

"  Very  willingly,"  he  rejoined ;  and  rising, 
he  strode  a  little  distance  up  the  pass,  threw 
himself  down  on  a  swell  of  heath,  and  there 
lay  still. 

"I  can  do  what  he  wants  me  to  do';  I  am 
forced  to  see  and  acknowledg<?  that,"  I  medi- 
tated— "  that  is,  if  life  be  spared  me.  But  I  feel 
mine  is  not  the  existence  to  be  long  protracted 
under  an  Indian  sun.  What  then  1  He  does  not 
care  for  that ;  when  rny  time  came  to  die  he 
would  resign  me,  in  all  serenity  and  sanctity,  to 
the  God  who  gave  me  to  him.  The  case  is  very,j[^ 
plain  before  me.  In  leaving  England,  I  sliould 
leave  a  loved  but  empty  land — Mr.  Rochester  is 
not  there ;  and  if  he  were,  what  is,  what  can 
that  ever  be  to  mel  My  business  is  to  live 
without  him  now  ;  nolhirtg  so  absurd,  so  weak 
as  to  drag  on  from  day  to  day,  as  if  I  were 
waiting  some  impossible  change  in  circum- 
stances, which  might  reunite  me  to  him.  Of 
course  (as  St.  John  once  said)  I  must  seek 
another  interest  in  life  to  replace  the  one  lost ; 
is  not  the  occupation  he  now  offers  me  truly 
the  most  glorious  man  can  adopt  or  God  assign  1 
Is  it  not,  by  its  noble  cares  and  sublime  results, 
the  one  best  calculated  to  fill  the  void  left  by 
uptorn  affections  and  demolished  hopes  1  I 
believe  I  must  say  yes — and  yet  I  shudder. 
Alas !  If  I  join  St.  John,  I  abandon  half  my- 
self;  if  I  go  to  India,  I  go  to  premature  death. 
And  how  will  the  interval  between  leaving 
England  for  India,  and  India  for  the  grave,  be 
filled!  Oh,  I  know  well!  That',  too,  is  very 
clear  to  my  vision.  By  straining  to  satisfy  St. 
John  till  my  sinews  ache,  I  shall  satisfy  him — 
to  the  finest  central  point  and  farthest  outward 
circle  of  his  expectations.  If  I  do  go  with  him 
— if  I  do  make  the  sacrifice  he  urges,  I  will 
make  it  absolutely;  I  will  throw  all  on  the 
altar — heart,  vitals,  the  entire  victim.  He  wiU 
never  love  me  ;  but  he  shall  approve  me  ;  I  will 
show  him  energies  he  has  not  yet  seen,  re- 
sources he  has  never  suspected.  Yes;  I  can 
work  as  hard  as  he  can,  and  with  as  little 
grudging. 


156 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  (Tonsent,  then,  to  his  demand  is  possible ; 
but  for  one  item — one  dreadful  item.  It  is — 
that  he  asks  me  to  be  his  wife,  and  has  no  more 
of  a  husband's  heart  for  me  than  that  frowning 
giant  of  a  rock,  down  which  the  stream  is  foam- 
ing in  yonder  gorge.  He  prizes  me  as  a  soldier 
would  a  good  weapon  ;  and  that  is  all.  Un- 
married to  him,  this  would  never  grieve  me ; 
but  can  I  let  him  complete  his  calculations — 
coolly  put  into  practice  his  plans — go  through 
the  wedding  ceremony  1  Can  I  receive  from 
him  the  bridal  ring,  endure  all  the  forms  of  love 
{which  I  doubt  not  he  would  scrupulously  ob- 
serve), and  know  that  the  spirit  was  quite 
absent?  Can  I  bear  the  consciousness  that 
every  endearment  he  bestows  is  a  sacrifice 
made  on  principle  1  No,  such  a  martyrdom 
would  be  monstrous.  I  will  never  undergo  it ; 
As  his  sister,  I  might  accompany  "him — not  as 
his  wife ;  I  will  tell  him  so." 

I  looked  toward  the  knoll ;  there  he  lay,  still 
as  a  prostrate  column ;  his  face  turned  to  me  : 
his  eye  beaming  watchful,  and  keen.  He  started 
to  his  feet  and  approached  me. 

"  I  am  ready  to  go  to  India,  if  I  may  go  free." 

"Your  answer  requires  a  commentary,"  he 
'  said  ;  "  it  is  not  clear." 

"  You  have  hitherto  been  my  adopted  brother ; 
I,  your  adopted  sister  ;  let  us  continue  as  such  ; 
you  and  I  had  better  not  marry." 
,  He  shook  his  head.     "Adopted  fraternity  will 

hot  do  in  this  case.  If  you  were  my  real  sister 
it  would  be  different ;  I  should  take  you,  and 
seek  no  wife.  But,  as  it  is,  either  our  union 
must  be  consecrated  and  sealed  by  marriage,  or 
it  can  not  exist ;  practical  obstacles  oppose 
themselves  to  any  other  plan.  Do  you  see  it, 
Jane  1  Consider  a  moment — your  strong  sense 
^  will  guide  you." 

I  did  consider,  and  still  my  sense,  such  as  it 
was,  directed  me  only  to  the  fact  that  we  did 
not  love  each  other  as  man  and  wife  should  ; 
and  therefore  it  inferred  we  ought  not  to  marry. 
I  said  so.  "  St.  John,"  I  returned,  "  I  regard 
you  as  a  brother— you,  me  as  a  sister ;  so  let 
us  continue." 

"We  can  not — we  can  not,"  he  answered 
with  short,  sharp  determination  ;  "  it  would 
not  do.  You  have  said  you  will  go  with  me  to 
India  ;  remember — you  have  said  that." 

"  Conditionally." 

"  Well,  well.  To  the  main  point — the  depart- 
ure with  me  from  England,  the  co-operation 
with  me  in  my  future  labors — you  do  not  ob- 
ject. You  have  already  as  good  as  put  your 
hand  to  the  plow  ;  you  are  too  consistent  to 
withdraw  it.  You  have  but  one  end  to  keep  in 
view — how  the  work  you  have  undertaken  can 
best  be  done.  Simplify  your  complicated  inter- 
ests, feelings,  thoughts,  wishes,  aims ;  merge 
all  considerations  in  one  purpose,  that  of  ful- 
filling with  effect,  with  power,  the  mission  of 
your  great  Master.  To  do  so,  you  must  have 
a  coadjutor — not  a  brother,  that  is  a  loose  tie, 
but  a  husband.  I,  too,  do  not  want  a  sister  ;  a 
sister  might  any  day  be  taken  from  me.  I  want 
a  wife  ;  the  sole  help-meet  I  can  influence  effi- 
ciently in  life,  and  retain  absolutely  till  death." 
I"  I  shuddered  as  he  spoke  ;  I  felt  his  influence 
in  my  marrow,  his  hold  on  my  limbs. 

"  Seek  one  elsewhere  than  in  me,  St.  John  ; 
seek  one  fitted  to  you." 


"  One  fitted  to  my  purpose,  you  mean,  fitted 
to  my  vocation.  Again  I  tell  you  it  is  not  the 
insignificant  private  individual — the  mere  man, 
with  the  man's  selfish  senses — I  wish  to  mate  ; 
it  is  the  missionary." 

"  And  I  will  give  the  missionary  my  ener- 
gies— it  is  all  he  wants — but  not  myself;  that 
would  be  only  adding  the  husk  and  shell  to  the 
kernel.  For  them  he  has  no  use  ;  I  retain 
them." 

"  You  can  not — you  ought  not.  Do  you  think 
God  will  be  satisfied  with  half  an  oblation! 
Will  He  accept  a  mutilated  sacrifice  1  It  is 
the  cause  of  God  I  advocate;  it  is  under  His 
standard  I  enlist  you.  I  can  not  accept  on 
His  behalf  a  divided  allegiance  ;  it  must  be 
entire." 

"  Oh  !  I  will  give  my  heart  to  God,"  I  said. 
"  You  do  not  want  it." 

I  will  not  swear,  reader,  that  there  was  not 
something  of  repressed  sarcasm  both  in  the 
tone  in  which  I  uttered  this  sentence,  and  in 
the  feeling  that  accompanied  it.  I  had  silently 
feared  St.  John  till  now,  because  I  had  not  un- 
derstood him.  He  had  held  me  in  awe,  be- 
cause he  had  held  me  in  doubt.  How  much  of 
him  was  saint,  how  much  mortal,  I  could  not 
heretofore  tell ;  but  revelations  were  being 
made  in  this  conference ;  the  analysis  of  his 
nature  was  proceeding  before  my  eyes.  I  saw 
his  fallibilities  ;  I  comprehended  them.  I  un- 
derstood that,  sitting  there  where  I  did,  on  the 
bank  of  heath,  and  with  that  handsome  form 
before  me,  I  sat  at  the  feet  of  a  man  erring  as 
I.  The  veil  fell  from  his  hardness  and  despot- 
ism. Having  felt  in  him  the  presence  of  these 
qualities,  I  felt  his  imperfection,  and  took  cour- 
age. I  was  with  an  equal,  one  with  whom  I 
might  argue  ;  one  whom,  if  I  saw  good,  I  might 
resist. 

He  was  silent  after  I  had  uttered  the  last 
sentence,  and  I  presently  risked  an  upward 
glance  at  his  countenance.  His  eye,  bent  on 
me,  expressed  at  once  stern  surprise  and  keen 
inquiry.  "Is  she  sarcastic,  and  sarcastic  to 
mc  V  it  seemed  to  say.  '  "  What  does  this  sig- 
nify!" 

"  Do  not  let  us  forget  that  this  is  a  solemn 
matter,"  he  said,  ere  long  ;  "one  of  which  we 
may  neiiher  think  nor  talk  lightly  without  sin. 
I  trust,  Jane,  you  are  in  earnest  when  you  say 
you  will  give  your  heart  to  God  ;  it  is  all  I  want. 
Once  wrench  your  heart  from  man  and  fix  it 
on  your  M^tker,  the  advancement  of  ihal  Ma- 
ker's spiritual  kingdom  on  earth  will  be  your 
chief  delight  and  endeavor;  you  will  be  ready 
to  do  at  once  whatever  furthers  that  end.  You 
will  SCO  what  impetus  would  he  given  to  your 
efforts  and  mine  by  our  physical  and  mental 
union  in  marriage :  the  only  union  that  gives  a 
character  of  permanent  conformity  to  tiie  des- 
tinies and  designs  of  human  beings  ;  find,  pass- 
ing over  all  minor  caprices,  all  trivial  difficul- 
ties and  delicacies  of  feeling;  all  scruple  about 
(he  degree,  kind,  stVength,  or  tenderness  of 
mere  personal  inclination,  you  will  hasten  to 
enter  into  that  union  at  once." 

"Shall  I?"  I  said,  briefly;  and  I  looked  at 
his  features,  beautiful  in  their  harmony,  but 
strangely  formidable  in  their  still  severity;  at 
his  brow,  commanding,  but  not  open  ;  at  his 
eyes,  bright,  and  deep,  and  searching,  but  never 


JANE  EViiE. 


157 


soft ;  at  hie  tall,  imposing  figure ;  and  fan- 
cied myself,  in  idea,  his  wife.  Oh !  it  would 
never  do !  As  his  curate,  his  comrade,  all 
would  be  right  :  I  would  cross  oceans  with 
him  in  that  capacity  ;  toil  under  eastern  suns, 
in  Asian  deserts  with  him  in  that  office ;  ad- 
mire and  emulate  his  courage,  and  devotion, 
and  vigor  ;  accommodate  quietly  to  his  master- 
hood  ;  smile  undisturbed  at  his  ineradicable  am- 
bition ;  discriminate  the  Christian  from  the 
man  ;  profoundly  esteem  the  one,  and  freely 
forgive  the  other.  I  should  suffer  often,  no 
doubt,  attached  to  him  only  in  this  capacity  ; 
my  body  would  be  under  rather  a  stringent 
yoke,  but  my  heart  and  mind  would  be  free.  I 
should  still  have  my  unblighted  self  to  turn  to  ; 
my  natural  unenslaved  feelings  with  which  to 
communicate  in  moments  of  loneliness.  There 
would  be  recesses  in  my  mind  which  would  be 
only  mine,  to  which  he  never  came  ;  and  sen- 
timents growing  there  fresh  and  sheltered, 
which  his  austerity  could  never  blight,  nor  his 
measured  warrior-march  trample  down ;  but 
as  his  wife,  at  his  side  always,  and  always 
restrained,  and  always  checked,  forced  to  keep 
the  fire  of  my  nature  continually  low,  to  compel 
it  to  burn  inwardly  and  never  utter  a  cry, 
though  the  imprisoned  flame  consumed  vital 
after  vital — this  vvoujd  be  unendurable. 

"  St.  John  I"  I  exclaimed,  when  I  had  got  so 
far  in  my  meditation. 

"Weill"  he  answered,  icily. 

'•  I  repeat,  I  freely  consent  to  go  with  you  as 
your  fellow-missionary,  but  not  as  your  wife  ; 
lean  not  marry  you  and  become  a  part  of  yuu." 

"  A  part  ot  me  you  must  become,"  he  an- 
swered, steadily;  "otherwise  the  whole  bar- 
gain is  void.  How  can  I,  a  man  not  yet  thii- 
ly,  take  out  with  me  to  India  a  girl  of  nineteen, 
unless  she  is  married  to  me'!  How  can  we 
he  forever  together — sometimes  in  solitudes, 
sometimes  amid  savage  tribes — and^  unwed  1" 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  shortly,  '•  under  the  cir- 
cumstances ;  quite  as  well  as  if  I  were  either 
your  real  sister;  or  a  man  and  a  clergyman, 
like  yourself." 

"  It  is  known  that  you  are  not  my  sister;  I 
can  not  introduce  you  as  such;  to  aiiempt  it 
would  be  to  fasten  injurious  suspicions  on  us 
both.  And  for  the  rest,  tiiough  you  have  a 
^nian's  vigorous  brain,  you  have  a  woman's 
liearl,  and — it  would  not  do." 

"  Ii  would  do,"  I  affirmed,  with  some  dis- 
dain, "  perfectly  well.  I  have  a  woman's 
lieart,  but  not  where  you  are  concerned ;  for 
you  I  have  only  a  comrade's  constancy  ;  a  fel- 
iow-soldier's  frankness,  fidelity,  fraternity,  if 
you  like  ;  a  neophyte's  respect  and  submissi^ju 
to  his  hieroplianl ;  nothing  more — don't  fear." 

"It  is  what  I  want,"  he  said,  speaking  to, 
himself;  "it  is  just  what  I  want.  And  there 
are  obstacles  in  the  way  ;  they  must  be  hewn 
down.  Jane,  you  would  not  repent  marrying 
me  ;  be  certain  of  that :  we  must  be  married. 
I  repeat  it,  there  is  no  other  way  ;  and  undoubt- 
edly enough  of  love  would  follow  upon  marriage 
to  render  the  union  right  even  in  your  eyes." 
J.  "  I  scorn  your  idea  of  love,"  I  could  not  help 
saying,  as  I  rose  up  and  stood  before  him,  lean- 
ing my  back  against  the  rock.  "I  scorn  the 
counterfeit  sentiment  you  ofler ;  yes,  St,  John, 
and  I  scorn  you  when  you  ofTer  it." 


He  looked  at  me  fixedly,  compressnifi  iua 
well-cut  lips  while  he  did  so.  "Whether  he  was 
incensed  or  surprised,  or  what,  it  is  not  easy 
to  tell ;  he  could  command  his  countenance 
thoroughly. 

"  I  scarcely  expecte<l  to  hear  that  expression 
from  you,"  he  said  ;  "  I  think  I  have  done  and 
uttered  nothing  to  deserve  scorn." 

I  was  touched  by  his  gentle  tone,  and  over- 
awed by  his  high,  calm  mien. 

"  Forgive  me  the  words,  St.  John  ;  but  it  is 
your  own  fault  that  I  have  been  roused  to  speak 
so  unguardedly.  You  have  introduced  a  topic 
on  which  our  natures  are  at  variance — a  topic 
we  should  never  discuss ;  the  very  name  of 
love  is  an  apple  of  discord  between  us — if  the 
reality  were  required,  what  should  we  dol 
How  should  we  feell  My  dear  cousin,  aban- 
don your  scheme  of  marriage — forget  it." 

"No,"  said  he;  "it  is  a  long-cherished 
scheme,  and  the  only  one  which  can  secure  my 
great  end  ;  but  I  shall  urge  you  no  further  at 
present.  To-morrow  I  leave  home  for  Cam- 
bridge ;  I  have  many  friends  there  to  whom  I 
should  wish  to  say  farewell.  I  shall  be  absent 
a  fortnight ;  take  that  space  of  time  to  consider 
my  offer,  and  do  not  forget  that  if  you  reject  it, 
it  is  not  me  you  deny,  but  God.  Through  my 
means.  He  opens  to  you  a  noble  career  ;  as  my 
wife  only  can  you  enter  upon  it.  Refuse  to  be 
my  wile,  and  you  limit  yourself  forever  to  a 
track  of  selfish  ease  and  barren  obscurity. 
Tremble,  lest  in  that  case  you  should-  be  num- 
bered w-ith  those  who  have  denied  the  faith 
and  are  worse  than  infidels  !" 

He  had  done.  Turning  from  me,  he  once 
more 

"  Locked  to  river,  looked  to  hill ;" 

but  this  time  his  feelings  were  all  pent  in  his 
heart ;  I  was  not  worthy  to  hear  them  uttered. 
As  I  walked  by  his  side  homeward,  I  read  well 
in  his  iron  silence  all  he  felt  toward  me :  the 
disapi)ointment  of  an  austere  and  despotic  na- 
ture, which  has  met  resistance  where  it  ex- 
pected submission ;  the  disap|)rol)ation  of  a 
cool,  inflexible  judgment,  which  has  detected 
in  another  feelings  and  vie^vs  in  which  it  has 
no  power  to  sympathize  ;  in  short,  as  a  man, 
he  would  have  wished  to  coerce  me  into  obedi- 
ence ;  it  was  only  as  a  sincere  Christian  he  boro 
so  patiently  vvith  niy  perversity,  and  allowed 
so  long  a  space  for  reflection  and  repentance. 

That  night,  alter  he  had  kissed  his  sisters, 
he  thought  proper  to  forget  even  to  shake  hands 
with  me,  but  left  the  room  in  silence.  I — who, 
though  I  had  no  love,  had  much  friendsliip  for 
him — was  hurt  by  the  marked  omission  ;"  so 
much  hurt  that  tears  started  to  my  eyes. 

"I  see  you  and  St.  John  have  beu;!  quarrel- 
ing, Jane,"  said  Diana,  "during  your  walk  on 
the  moor.  But  go  after  him  ;  he  is  now  linger- 
ing in  the  passage,  expecting  you — he  wdl  niako 
it  up." 

I  have  not  much  pride  under  such  circum 
stances  ;  I  would  always  rather  be  happy  that 
dignified  ;  and  I  ran  after  him — he  stood  at  tli^ 
foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Good-night,  St.  John,"  said  I. 

"Good-night,  Jane,"  he  replied,  calmly. 

"  Then  shake  hands,"  I  added. 

"What  a  cold,  loose  touch  he  impressed  6i 


158 


JANE  EYRE. 


my  fingers  !  He  was  deeply  displeased  by  what 
had  occurred  that  day  ;  cordiality  would  not 
warm,  nor  tears  move  him.  No  happy  recon- 
ciliation was  to  be  had  with  him — no  cheering 
Bmile  or  generous  word  ;  but  still  the  Christian 
was  patient  and  placid  ;  and  when  I  asked  him 
if  he  forgave  me,  he  answered  that  he  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  cherishing  the  remembrance  of 
vexation ;  that  he  had  nothing  to  forgive,  not 
having  been  offended. 

And  with  that  answer,  he  left;  me.     I  would 
much  rather  he  had  knocked  me  down. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

He  did  not  leave  for  Cambridge  the  next  day, 
as  he  had  said  he  would.  He  deferred  his  de- 
parture a  whole  week  ;  and  during  that  time  he 
made  me  feel  what  severe  punishment  a  good, 
yet  stern — a  conscientious,  yet  implacable  man 
can  inflict  on  one  who  has  offended  him.  Wilh- 
out  one  overt  act  of  hostility,  one  upbraiding 
word,  he  contrived  to  impress  me  momently 
With  the  conviction  that  I  was  put  beyond  the 
pale  of  his  favor. 

Not  that  St.  John  harbored  a  spirit  of  un- 
christian vindictiveness  —  not  that  ho  would 
have  injured  a  hair  of  my  head,  if  it  had  been 
fully  in  his  power  to  do  so.  Both  by  nature 
and  principle  he  was  superior  to  the  mean  grat- 
ification of  vengeance;  he  had  forgiven  me  for 
saying  I  scorned  him  and  iiis  love,  but  he  had 
not  forgotten  the  words  ;  and  as  long  as  he  and 
I  lived  he  never  would  forget  them.  I  saw  by 
his  look,  when  he  turned  to  me,  that  they  were 
always  written  on  the  air  between  me  and  him  ; 
whenever  I  spoke,  they  sounded  in  my  voice 
to  his  ear  ;  and  their  echo  toned  every  answer 
he  gave  me. 

He  did  not  abstain  from  conversing  with  me ; 
he  even  called  me  as  usual  each  morning  to 
join  him  at  his  desk  ;  and  I  fear  the  corrupt 
man  within  him  had  a  pleasure  unimparted  to, 
and  unshared  by,  the  pure  Christian,  in  evincing 
with  what  skill  he  coald,  while  acting  and  speak- 
ing apparently  just  as  usual,  extract  from  every 
deed  and  every  phrase  the  spirit  of  interest  and 
approval  which  had  formerly  communicated  a 
certain  austere  charm  to  his  language  and  man- 
ner. To  me,  he  was  in  reality  become  no  long- 
er flesh,  but  marble  ;  his  eye  was  a  cold,  bright, 
blue  gem  ;  his  tongue,  a  speaking  instrument — 
nothing  more. 

All  this  was  torture  to  me — refined,  lingering 
torture.  It  kept  up  a  slow  fire  of  indignation, 
and  a  trembling  trouble  of  grief,  which  harassed 
and  crushed  me  altogether.  I  felt  how — if  I 
■were  his  wife — this  good  n'an,  pure  as  the  deep 
sunless  source,  could  soon  kill  me — without 
drawing  from  my  veins  a  single  drop  of  blood, 
or  receiving  on  his  own  crystal  conscience  the 
faintest  stain  of  crime.  Especially  I  felt  this, 
when  I  made  any  attempt  to  propitiate  liim.  No 
ruth  met  my  ruth.  He  experienced  no  suffer- 
ing from  estrangement — no  yearning  after  roc- 
onciliaiion  ;  and  though,  more  than  once,  my 
fast-falling  tears  blistered  the  page  over  vvhich 
we  both  bent,  they  produced  no  more  effect  on 
him  than  if  his  heart  had  been  really  a  matter 
of  stone  or  metal.  To  his  sisters,  meantime, 
bo  waa  Boracwhai  kinder  than  usual ;   as  if 


afraid  that  mere  coldness  would  not  sufficiently 
convince  me  how  completely  I  was  banished 
and  banned,  he  added  the  force  of  contrast; 
and  this  I  am  sure  he  did,  not  by  malice,  but  on 
principle. 

The  night  before  he  left  home,  happening  to 
see  him  walking  in  the  garden  about  sunset, 
and  remembering,  as  I  looked  at  him,  that  this 
man,  alienated  as  he  now  was,  had  once  saved 
my  life,  and  that  we  were  near  relations,  I  was 
moved  to  make  a  last  attempt  to  regain  his 
friendship.  I  went  out  and  approached  him,  as 
he  stood  leaning  over  the  little  gale  ;  I  spoke 
to  the  point  at  once. 

"St.  John,  I  am  unhappy,  because  you  are 
still  angry  with  mc.     Let  us  be  friends." 

"  I  hope  we  are  friends,"  was  the  unmoTed 
reply;  while  he  still  watched  the  rising  of  the 
moon,  which  he  had  been  contemplating  as  I 
approached. 

"No,  St.  John,  we  are  not  friends  as  we 
were.     You  know  that." 

"  Are  we  not  1  That  is  wrong.  For  my  part, 
I  wish  you  no  ill  and  all  good." 

"  I  believe  you,  St.  John  ;  for  I  am  sure  you 
are  incapable  of  wishing  any  one  ill;  but,  as  I 
am  your  kinswoman,  I  should  desire  somewhat 
more  of  affection  than  that  sort  of  general  phi- 
lanthropy you  extend  to  mere  strangers." 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "Your  wish  is  rea- 
sonable ;  and  I  am  far  from  regarding  you  as  a 
stranger." 

This,  spoken  in  a  cool,  tranquil  tone,  was 
mortifying  and  baffling  enough.  Had  I  attend- 
ed to  ihe  suggestions  of  pride  and  ire,  I  should 
iinmediately  have  left  him  ;  but  something 
worked  within  me  more  strongly  than  those 
feelings  could.  I  deeply  venerated  my  cousin's 
talent  and  principle.  His  friendsliip  was  of 
vdlue  to  me ;  to  lose  it  tried  me  severely.  I 
would  not  so  soon  relinquish  the  attempt  to  re- 
conquer it. 

"Must  we  part  in  this  way,  St.  John?  And 
when  you  go  to  India,  will  you  leave  ms  so, 
without  a  kinder  word  than  you  have  yet 
spoken  1" 

He  now  turned  quite  from  the  moon,  and 
faced  me. 

"  When  I  go  to  India,  Jane,  will  I  leave  you? 
What !  do  you  not  go  to  India  1" 

"  You  said  I  could  not,  unless  I  married 
you."     . 

"  And  you  will  not  marry  me  T  You  adhere 
to  that  resolution?" 

Reader,  do  you  know,  as  I  do,  what  terror 
those  cold  people  can  put  into  the  ice  of  their 
questions  ?     How  much  of  the  fall  of  the  ava- 
lanche is  in  their  anger?  of  the  breaking  up  of 
the  frozen  sea  in  their  displeasure  ? 

"  No,  St.  John.  I  will  not  marry  you.  I  ad- 
here to  my  resolution." 

The  avalanche  had  shaken  and  slid  a  little 
forward,  but  it  did  not  yet  crash  down. 

"  Once  more,  why  this  refusall"  he  askeJ. 

"  Formerly,"  I  answered,  "  because  you  did' 
not  love  nie  ;  now,  I  reply,  because  you  almost 
hate  me.     If  I  w(-re  to  marry  you,  you  would 
kill  me.     You  arc  killing  me  now." 

His  lips  and  cheeks  turned  white— quit© 
white. 

"  1  should  hill— lam  hlUng  you  7  Your  words 
are  such  as  ought  not  to  bo  used  :  violent,  un- 


JANE  EYRE. 


150 


feminine,  and  untnie.  They  betray  an  un- 
fortunate state  of  mind  ;  they  merit  severe 
reproof:  they  would  seem  inexcusable,  but  that 
it  is  the  duty  of  man  to  forgive  his  fellow,  even 
until  sevcnty-and-seven  times." 

I  had  finished  the  business  now.  While 
earnestly  wishing  to  erase  from  his  mind  the 
trace  of  my  former  offense,  I  had  stamped  on 
that  tenacious  surface  another  and  far  deeper 
impression  ;  I  had  burned  it  in. 

"  Now  you  will  indeed,  hate  me,"  I  said. 
"  It  is  useless  to  attempt  to  conciliate  you  j  I 
see  I  have  made  an  eternal  enemy  of  you." 

A  fresh  wrong  did  these  words  inflict  ;  the 
worse,  because  they  touched  on  the  truth. 
That  bloodless  lip  quivered  to  a  temporary 
spasm.  I  knew  the  steelly  ire  I  had  whetted. 
I  was  heart-wrung. 

"  You  utterly  misinterpret  my  words,"  I  said, 
at  onee  seizing  his  hand  ;  "  I  have  no  intention 
to  grieve  or  pain  you — indeed  I  have  not." 

Most  bitterly  he  smiled — most  decidedly  he 
withdrew  his  liand  from  mine.  "  And  now  you 
recall  your  promise,  and  will  not  go  to  India  at 
all,  I  presume?"  said  he,  after  a  considerable 
pause. 

"Yes  I  will,  as  your  assistant,"  I- answered. 

A  vt.y  long  silence  succeeded.  "What  strug- 
gle iliere  was  in  him  between  Nature  and  Grace 
in  this  interval,  I  can  not  tell ;  only  singular 
gleams  sci\itillated  in  his  ey6s,  and  strange 
shadows  passed  over  his  face.  He  spoke  at 
last. 

"  I  before  proved  to  you  the  absurdity  of  a 
single  woman  of  your  age  proposing  to  accom- 
pany abroad  a  single  man  of  mine.  I  proved 
it  to  you  in  such  terms  as  I  should  have  thought 
W"ould  have  prevented  your  ever  again  alluding 
to  the  jilan.  That  you  have  done  so,  I  regret — 
for  your  sake." 

I  interrupted  him.  Any  thing  like  a  tangible 
Teproach  gave  me  courage  at  once.  "  Keep  to 
ommon  sense,  St.  John  ;  you  are  verging  on 
nonsense.  You  pretend  to  be  shocked  by  what 
I  have  said.  You  are  not  really  shocked;  for, 
with  your  superior  mind,  you  can  not  be  either 
so  dull  or  so  conceited  as  to  misunderstand  my 
meaning.  1  say  again,  I  will  be  your  curate,  if 
you  like,  but  never  your  wife." 

Again  he  turned  lividly  pale  ;  but,  as  before, 
controlled  his  passion  perfectly.  He  answered 
emphatically,  but  calmly — 

"  A  female  curate,  who  is  not  my  wife,  would 
never  suit  ine.  With  me,  then,  it  seems,  you 
can  not  go ;  but  if  you  are  sincere  in  your 
offer,  I  will,  while  in  town,  speak  to  a  married 
missionary,  whose  wife  needs  a  coadjutor. 
Your  own  fortune  will  make  you  independent 
of  the  Society's  aid  ;  and  thus  you  may  still  be 
spared  the  dishonor  of  breaking  your  promise, 
and  deserting  the  band  you  engaged  to  join." 
_  Now  I  never  had,  as  the  reader  knows,  either 
given  any  formal  promise,  or  entered  into  any 
eng;)gen'ent ;  and  this  language  was  all  much 
too  hard,  and  much  too  despotic  for  the  oc- 
casion.    I  replied — ■ 

"There  is  no  dishonor,  no  breach  of  promise, 
no  desertion  in  the  case.  I  am  not  under  the 
slightest  obligation  to  go  to  India,  especially 
With  strangers.  With  you  I  would  have  ven- 
tuied  much,  because  I  admire,  confide  in,  and. 
as  a  sister,  I  love  you ;  but  I  am  convinced 


that,  go  when  and  with  whom  I  would,  I  should 
not  live  long  in  that  climate." 

"  Ah  !  you  are  afraid  of  yourself,"  he  said, 
curling  his  lip. 

"  I  am.  God  did  not  give  me  my  life  to 
throw  away  ;  and  to  do  as  you  wish  me,  would, 
1  begin  to  think,  be  almost  equivalent  to  com- 
mitting suicide.  Moreover,  bel'ore  I  definitively 
resolve  on  quitting  England,  I  will  know  for 
certain,  whether  I  can  not  be  of  greater  use  by 
remaining  in  it  than  by  leaving  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  1" 

"  It  would  be  fruitless  to  attempt  to  explain  ; 
but  there  is  a  point  on  which  I  have  long  en- 
dured painful  doubt ;  and  I  can  go  nowhere  till 
by  some  means  that  doubt  is  removed." 

"  I  know  where  your  heart  turns,  and  to 
what  it  clings.  The  interest  you  cherish  is 
lawless  and  unconsecrated.  Long  since  you 
ought  to  have  crushed  it ;  now  you  should  blush 
to  allude  to  it.     You  think  of  Mr.  Rochester  V 

It  was  true.    I  confessed  it  by  silence. 

"  Are  you  going  to  seek  Mr.  Rochester  1" 

"  I  must  find  out  what  is  become  of  him." 

"  It  remains  for  me,  then,"  he  said,  "  to  re- 
member you  in  my  prayers,  and  to  entreat  God 
for  you,  in  all  earnestness,  that  you  may  not 
indeed  become  a  castaway.  I  had  thought  I 
recognized  in  you  one  of  the  chosen.  But  God 
sees  not  as  man  sees  ;  His  will, be  done." 

He  opened  the  gate,  passed  through  it,  and 
strayed  away  down  the  glen.  He  was  soon  out 
of  sight. 

On  re-entering  the  parlor,  I  found  Diana 
standing  at  the  window,  looking  very  thought- 
ful. Diana  was  a  great  deal  taller  than  I ;  she 
put  her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and,  stooping, 
examined  my  face.  > 

"Jane,"'  she  said,  "you  are  always  agitated 
and  pale  now.  I  am  sure  there  is  something 
the  matter.  Tell  me  v/hat  business  St.  John 
and  you  have  on  hand.  I  have  watched  you 
this  half  hour  from  the  window  ;  you  inust  for- 
give my  being  such  a  spy.  but  for  a  long  time  I 
have  fancied  I  hardly  know  what.  St.  John  is 
a  strange  being — " 

She  paused — I  did  not  speak ;  soon  she  re- 
sumed— 

"  That  brother  of  mine  cherishes  peculiar 
views  of  some  sort  respecting  you,  I  anv  sure  ; 
he  has  long  distinguished  you  by  a  notice  and 
interest  he  never  showed  any  one  else — to 
what  endl  I  wish  he  loved  you — does  ho, 
JaneV 

I  put  her  cool  hand  to  my  hot  foreheadj 
"  No,  Die,  not  one  whit." 

"  Then  why  does  he  follow  you  so  with  his 
eyes — and  get  you  so  frequently  alone  with 
him,  and  keep  j'ou  so  continually  at  his  side! 
Mary  and  I  had  both  concluded  he  wished  you 
to  marry  him." 

"  He  does — he  has  asked  me  to  be  his  wife." 

Diana  clapped  her  hands.  "  That  is  just 
what  we  hoped  and  thought !  And  you  will 
marry  him,  Jane,  won't  youl  And  then  he 
will  stay  in  England." 

"  Far  from  that,  Diana  ;  his  sole  idea  in  pro- 
posing to  me  is  to  procure  a  fitting  fellow-laborer 
in  his  Indian  toils." 

"  What !  he  wishes  you  to  go  to  India  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"Madness!"  she  exclaimed.     "You  would 


160 


JANi:  EYRE. 


not  live  three  months  there,  i  am  certain.  You 
never  shall  go ;  you  have  not  consented — have 
you,  Jane  V     • 

"  I  have  refused  to  marry  him — " 

"And  have,  consequently,  displeased  himV 
she  suggested. 

"  Deeply :  he  will  never  forgive  me,  I  fear  ; 
yet  I  offered  to  accompany  him  as  his  sis- 
ter." 

"  It  was  frantic  folly  to  do  so,  Jane.  Think 
of  the  task  you  undertook — one  of  incessant 
fatigue — where  fatigue  kills  even  the  strong ; 
and  you  are  weak.  St.  John — you  know  him — 
would  urge  you  to  impossibilities  ;  with  him 
there  would  be  no  permission  to  rest  during 
the  hot  hours ;  and,  unfortunately,  I  have  no- 
ticed, whatever  he  exacts,  you  force  yourself  to 
perform.  I  am  astonished  you  found  courage  to 
refuse  his  hand.  You  do  not  love  him,  then, 
Jane  1" 

"Not  as  a  husband." 

•'  Yet  he  is  a  handsome  fellow." 

"  And  I  am  so  plain,  you  see,  Di.  We 
should  never  suit." 

"  Plain  !  You  1  Not  at  all.  You  are  much 
too  pretty,  as  well  as  too  good,  to  be  grilled 
alive  in  Calcutta."  And  again  she  earnestly 
conjured  me  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of  going 
out  with  her  brother. 

"  I  must,  indeed,"  I  said  ;  "  for  when,  just 
now,  I  repeatefl  the  offer  of  serving  him  for  a 
deacon,  he  expressed  himself  shocked'  at  my 
want  of  decency.  He  seemed  to  think  I  had 
committed  an  impropriety  in  proposing  to  ac- 
company him  unmarried,  as  if  I  had  not  from 
the  first  hoped  to  find  in  him  a  brother  ;  and 
habituaiiy  regarded  him  as  such." 

"  What  makes  you  say  he  does  not  love  you, 
Jane!" 

"  You  should  hear  himself  on  the  subject. 
He  has  again  and  again  explained  that  it  is  not 
himself,  but  his  office,  he  wishes  to  mate.  He 
has  told  me  I  am  formed  for  labor — not  for 
love — which,  is  true,  no  doubt.  But,  in  my 
opinion,  if  I  am  not  formed  for  love,  it  follows 
that  I  am  not  formed  for  marriage.  Would 
it  not  be  strange,  Di,  to  be  chained  for  life 
to  a  man  who  regarded  one  but  as  a  useful 
tool  ?" 

"  Insupportable — unnatural — out  of  the  ques- 
tion !" 

;t  "  And  then,"  I  continued,  "  though  I  have 
only  sisterly  affection  for  him  now,  yet,  if 
forced  to  be  his  wife,  I  can  imagine  the  possi- 
bility of  conceiving  an  inevitable,  strange,  tor- 
turing kind  of  love  for  him,  because  he  is  so 
talented ;  and  there  is  often  a  certain  heroic 
grandeur  in  his  look,  manner,  and  conversation, 
la  that  case,  my  lot  would  become  unspeakably 
wretched.  He  would  not  want  me  to  love 
him  ;  and  if  I  showed  the  feeling,  he  would 
make  me  sensible  that  it  was  a  superfluity,  un- 
required hy  him,  unbecoming  in  me.  I  know 
he  would." 

"  And  yet  St.  John  is  a  good  man,"  said 
Diana. 

"He  is  a  good  and  a  great  man  ;  but  he  for- 
gets, pitilessly,  the  feelings  and  claims  of  little 
people,  in  pursuing  his  own  large  views.  It  is 
bel^ttr,  therefore,  for  the  insignificant  to  keep 
out  of  his  way,  Ipst,  in  his  progress,  he  should 
trample  them  down.    Here  he  comes !     I  will 


leave  you,  Diana."     And  I  hastened  up  stairs, 
as  I  saw  him  entering  the  garden. 

But  I  was  forced  to  meet  him  again  at  sup- 
per. During  that  meal  he  appeared  just  aa 
composed  as  usual.  I  had  thought  he  would 
hardly  speak  to  me,  and  I  was  certain  he  had 
given  up  the  pursuit  of  his  matrimonial  scheme ; 
the  sequel  showed  I  was  mistaken  on  both 
points.  He  addressed  me  precisely  in  his  or- 
dinary manner,  or  what  had,  of  late,  been  his 
ordinary  manner — one  scrupulously  polite.  No 
doubt  he  had  invoked  the  help  of  the  Holy 
Spirit  to  subdue  the  anger  I  had  roused  in  him, 
and  now  believed  he  had  forgiven  me  onc€ 
more. 

For  the  evening  reading  before  prayers,  he 
selected  the  twenty-first  chapter  of  Revelations. 
It  was  at  all  times  pleasant  to  listen,  while  from 
his  lips  fell  the  words  of  the  Bible  ;  never  did 
his  fine  voice  sound  at  once  so  sweet  and  full 
— never  did  his  manner  become  so  impressive 
in  its  noble  simplicity,  as  when  he  delivered 
the  oracles  of  God  ;  and  to-night  that  voice  took 
a  more  solemn  tone,  that  manner  a  more  thrill- 
ing meaning,  as  he  sat  in  the  midst  of  his  house- 
hold circle  (the  May  moon  shining  in  through 
the  uncurtained  window,  and  rendering  almost 
unnecessary  the  light  of  the  candle  on  the  table); 
as  he  sat  there,  bending  over  the  great  old  Bi- 
ble, and  described  from  its  page  the  vision  of 
the  new  heaven  and  the  new  earth — told  how 
God  would  come  to  dwell  wilh  men — how  he 
would  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes, 
and  promised  that  there  should  be  no  more 
death,  neither  sorrow  nor  crying,  nor  any  more 
pain,  because  the  former  things  were  passed 
away. 

The  succeeding  words  thrilled  me  strangely 
as  he  spoke  ihem  ;  especially  as  I  felt,  by  the 
slight,  indescribable  alteration  in  sound,  that  in 
uttering  tiiem  his  eye  had  turned  on  me. 

"  He  that  overcometh  shall  inherit  all  things  ; 
and  I  will  be  bis  God,  and  he  shall  be  my  son. 
But,"  was  slowly,  distinctly  road,  "  the  fearful, 
the  unbelieving,  &c..  shall  have  their  part  in 
the  lake  which  biirneth  with  fire  and  brimstone, 
which  is  the  second  death." 

Henceforward  I  knew  what  fate  St.  John 
feared  for  me. 

A  calm,  subdued  triumph,  blent  with  a  long- 
ing earnestness,  marked  his  enunciation  of  the 
last  glorious  verses  of  that  chapter.  The  read- 
er believed  his  name  was  already  written  in  tho 
Lamb's  book  of  life,  and  he  yearned  after  the 
hour  which  should  admit  him  to  the  city  to 
w^hich  the  kings  of  the  earth  bring  their  glory 
and  honor — which  has  no  need  of  sun  or  moon 
to  shine  in  it,  because  the  glory  of  God  lightens 
it,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  light  thereof. 

In  the  prayer  following  the  chapter,  all  his 
energy  gathered — all  his  stern  zeal  woke  ;  he 
was  in  deep  earnest,  wrestling  with  God,  and  re- 
solved on  a  conquest.  He  supplicated  strength 
for  the  weak-hearted — guidance  for  wanderers 
from  the  fold — a  return,  even  at  t!ie  eleventh 
hour,  for  thoao  whom  the  teniptations  ol  the 
world  and  the  flesh  were  luring  from  the  nar- 
row path.  He  asked,  he  urged,  he  clauned  the 
boon  of  a  brand  snatched  (mm  the  hiunmg. 
Earnestness  is  ever  deeply  solemn  ;  first,  as  I 
listened  to  that  prayer,  I  wondered  at  his  ;  then, 
when  it  continued  and  rose,  I  was  touched  by 


JANE  EYRE. 


161 


it,  and  at  tast  awed.  He  feH  the  greatness  and 
goodness  of  his  purpose  so  sincerely;  others  who 
heard  him  plead  for  it  could  notbut  feel  it  too. 

The  prayer  over,  we  took  leave  of  him  :  he 
was  to  go  at  a  very  early  hour  in  the  morning. 
Diana  and  Mary,  having  kissed  him,  left  the 
room,  in  compliance,  I  think,  with  a  whispered 
hint  from  him  ;  I  tendered  my  hand,  and  wish- 
ed him  a  pleasant  journey. 

"Thank  you,  Jane.  As  1  said,  I  shall  return 
from  Cambridge  in  a  fortnight  ;  that  space, 
then,  is  yet  left  you  for  reflection.  If  I  listen- 
ed to  human  pride,  I  should  say  no  more  to  you 
of  marriage  with  me  ;  but  I  listen  to  my  duty, 
and  keep  steadily  in  view  my  first  aim — to  do 
all  things  to  the  glory  of  God.  My  Master  was 
long-suffering  :  so  will  f  be.  I  can  not  give  you 
up  to  perdition  as  a  vessel  of  wrath  ;  repent — 
resolve,  while  there  is  yet  time.  Remember, 
we  are  bid  to  work  while  it  is  day — warned  that 
"  the  night  cometh  when  no  man  shall  work." 
Remember  the  fate  of  Dives,  who  had  his  good 
things  in  this  life.  God  give  you  strength  to 
choose  that  better  part  which  shall  not  be  taken 
from  you !" 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  head  as  he  uttered 
the  last  words.  He  had  spoken  earnestly,  mild- 
ly; his  look  was  not,  indeed,  that  of  a  lover 
beholding  his  mistress ;  but  it  was  that  of  a 
pastor  recalling  his  wandering  sheep — or  better, 
of  a  guardian  angel  watching  the  soul  for  which 
he  is  responsible.  All  men  of  talent,  whether 
they  be  men  of  feeling  or  not ;  whether  they  be 
'Zealots,  or  aspirants,  or  despots — provided  only 
they  be  sincere — have  their  sublime  moments  ; 
when  they  subdue  and  rule.  I  felt  veneration 
for  St.  John — veneration  so  strong  that  its  im- 
petus thrust  me  at  once  to  the  point  I  had  so 
long  shunned.  I  was  tempted  to  cease  strug- 
gling with  him — to  rush  down  the  torrent  of  his 
will  into  the  gulf  of  his  existence,  and  there 
lose  my  own.  I  was  almost  as  hard  beset  by 
him  now  as  I  had  been  once  before,  in  a  differ- 
ent way,  by  another.  I  was  a  fool  both  times. 
To  have  yielded  then  would  have  been  an  error 
of  principle  ;  to  have  yielded  now  would  have 
been  an  error  of  judgment.  So  I  think  at  this 
hour,  when  I  look  back  to  the  crisis  through  the 
quiet  medium  of  time ;  I  was  unconscious  of 
folly  at  the  instant. 

I  stood  motionless  under  my  hierophant's 
touch.  My  refusals  were  forgotten — my  fears 
overcome — my  wrestlings  paralyzed.  The  im- 
possible— i.  «.,  my  marriage  with  St.  John — was 
fast  becoming  the  possible.  All  was  changing 
-utterly,  with  a  sudden  sweep.  Religion  called 
— Angels  beckoned — God  commanded — life  roll- 
ed together  like  a  scroll — death's  gates  opening, 
showed  eternity  beyond ;  it  seemed,  that  for 
safety  and  bliss  there,  all  here  might  be  sacri- 
ficed in  a  second.  The  dim  room  was  full  of 
visions. 

"Could  you  decide  now  1"  asked  the  mission- 
ary. The  inquiry  was  put  in  gentle  tones  ;  he 
drew  me  to  him  as  gently.  Oh,  that  gentle- 
ness !  how  far  more  potent  is  it  than  force !  I 
could  resist  St.  John's  wrath  ;  I  grew  pliant  as 
a  reed  under  his  kindness.  Yet  I  knew  all  the 
time,  if  I  yielded  now,  I  should  not  the  less  be 
made  to  repent,  some  day,  of  my  former  rebel- 
lion. His  nature  was  not  changed  by  one  hour 
of  solemn  prayer ;  it  was  only  elevated. 


"I  could  decide  if  I  were  but  certain,"  I  an- 
swered ;  "  were  I  but  convinced  that  it  is  God's 
will  I  should  marry  you,  I  could  vov/  to  marry 
you  here  and  now  —  come  afterwaird  what 
would !" 

"  My  prayers  are  heard !"  ejaculated  St.  John. 
He  pressed  his  hand  firmer  on  my  head,  as  if 
he  claimed  me  :  he  surrounded  me  with  his  arm, 
almost  as  if  he  loved  me  (I  say  almost — I  knew 
the  difference — for  I  had  felt  what  it  was  to  be 
loved  ;  but,  like  him,  I  had  now  put  love  out  of 
the  question,  and  thought  only  of  duty) :  I  con- 
tended with  my  inward  dimness  of  vis-on,  be- 
fore which  clouds  yet  rolled.  I  sincerely,  deep- 
ly, f(=!rvenlly  longed  to  do  what  was  right ;  and 
only  that.  "  Show  me — show  me  the  path  !"  I 
entreated  of  Heaven.  I  was  excited  more  than  I 
had  ever  been  ;  and  whether  what  followed  was 
the  effect  of  excitement,  the  reader  shall  judge. 

All  the  house  was  still ;  for  I  believe  all,  ex- 
cept St.  John  and  myself,  were  now  retired  to 
rest.  The  one  candle  was  dying  out ;  the  room 
was  full  of  moonlight.  My  heart  beat  fast  and 
thick;  I  heard  its  throb.  Suddenly  it  stood 
still  to  an  inexpressible  feeling  that  thrilled  it 
through,  and  passed  at  once  to  my  head  and  ex- 
tremities. The  feeling  was  not  like  an  electric 
shock  ;  but  it  was  quite  as  sharp,  as  strange,  as 
startling ;  it  acted  on  my  senses  as  if  their  ut- 
most activity  hitherto  had  been  but  torpor,  from 
which  they  were  now  summoned,  and  forced  to 
wake.  They  rose  expectant ;  eye  and  ear  wait- 
ed, while  the  flesh  quivered  on  my  bones. 

"  What  have  you  heard  1  What  do  you  sec  1" 
asked  St.  John.  I  saw  nothing;  but  I  heard  a 
voice  somewhere  cry, 

"Jane!  Jane!  Jane!"  nothing  more. 

"  Oh,  God  !  what  is  it  1"  I  gasped. 

I  might  have  said,  "  Where  is  it  V  for  it  did 
not  seem  in  the  room — nor  in  the  house — nor  in 
the  garden  ;  it  did  not  come  out  of  the  air — nor 
from  under  the  earth — nor  from  overhead.  I 
had  heard  it — where  or  whence,  forever  impos- 
sible to  know  !  And  it  was  the  voice  of  a  hu- 
man being — a  known,  loved,  we!l-remcmbercd 
voice — that  of  Edward  Fairfax  Rochester ;  and 
it  spoke  in  pain  and  woe— wildly,  eerily,  ur- 
gently, 

"I  am  coming!"  I  cried.  "Wait  for  me! 
Oh,  I  will  come !"  I  flew  to  the  door,  and  look- 
ed into  the  passage ;  it  was  dark.  I  ran  out 
into  the  garden  ;  it  was  void. 

"  Where  are  you  V  I  exclaimed. 

The  hills  beyond  Marsh-Glen  sent  the  answer 
faintly  back,  "Where  are  you!'  I  listened. 
The  wind  sighed  low  in  the  firs  ;  all  was  moor- 
land loneliness  and  midnight  hush. 

"  Down  superstition  !"  I  commented,  as  thai 
specter  rose  up  black  by  the  black  yew  at  the 
gate.  "This  is  not  thy  deception,  nor  thy 
witchcraft ;  it  is  the  work  of  nature.  She  was 
roused,  and  did — no  miracle — but  her  best." 

I  broke  from  St.  John,  who  had  followed,  and 
would  have  detained  me.  It  was  my  turn  to 
assume  ascendency.  Mij  powers  were  in  play, 
and  in  force.  I  told  him  to  forbear  question  or 
remark ;  I  desired  him  to  leave  me ;  I  must, 
and  would  be  alone.  He  obeyed  at  once.  Where 
there  is  energy  to  command  well  enough,  obe- 
dience never  fails.  I  mounted  to  my  chamber ; 
locked  myself  in  ;  fell  on  my  knees  ;  and  pray- 
ed in  my  way — a  different  way  to  St.  John'3, 


162 


JANE  EYRE. 


but  cfTeclive  in  its  own  fashion.  I  seemed  to 
peneiraie  very  near  a  Miulily  .Spirit;  ami  my 
soul  riislied  (lilt  in  griiiiiude  at  His  f<?ct.  I  rose 
from  the  ihaiiivsgiving — took  a  resolve — and  lay 
down,  uiiscared,  enlightened — eager  but  for  lh«^ 
daylight. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

The  daylight  came.  I  rose  at  dawn.  I  busied 
myself  for  an  hour  or  two  with  arranging  my 
things  in  my  chamher,  drawers,  and  wardrobe 
in  the  order  wherein  I  should-  wish  to  leave 
them  during  a  hrief  absence.  Meantime,  I  heard 
St.  John  quit  his  room.  He  stopped  at  my  door  ; 
I  feared  he  would  knock — no,  but  a  slip  of  paper 
was  passed  under  the  door.  I  took  it  up.  It 
bore  these  words : 

"You  left  me  too  suddenly  last  night.  Had 
you  stayed  but  a  little  longer,  you  would  have 
Jaid  your  hand  on  the  Christian's  cross  and  the 
angel's  crown.  I  shall  expect  your  clear  deci- 
sion when  I  return  this  day  fortnight.  Mean- 
time, watch  and  pray  that  you  enter  not  into 
temptation  :  the  spirit,  I  trust,  is  willing,  hut 
the  flesh,  I  see,  is  weak.  I  shall  pray  lor  you 
hourly.     Yours,  St.  John." 

"  My  spirit,"  I  answered  mentally,  "  is  willing 
to  do  what  is  riglit ;  and  my  flesh,  I  hi^pe,  is 
strong  enough  to  accomplish  tlie  will  of  Heav- 
en, when  once  that  will  is  distinctly  known  to 
me.  At  any  rate,  it  shall  be  strong  enough  to 
search—  inquire — to  grope  an  outlet  from  this 
cloud  of  doubt,  and  tind  the  open  day  of  cer- 
tainly." 

It  was  th  '■  first  of  June  ;  yet  the  morning  was 
overcast  anJ  chilly  :  rai.n  beat  fast  on  my  case- 
ment. I  heard  the  front  door  open,  and  St. 
John  pass  out  Looking  through  the  window, 
I  saw  him  traverse  llie  garden.  He  look  the 
way  over  ihe  m  siy  moors  in  the  direction  of 
Whitc.oss — there  be  wouhl  meet  the  coach. 

"  In  a  few  more  hours  I  shall  succeed  you  in 
that  irack,  cousin,'  thought  I;  "I  too  have  a 
coach  to  meet  at  Wi  'Kiioss.  I  loo  have  some 
to  see  and  ask  after  ii  England,  before  I  depart 
forever." 

It  wanted  yet  two  hnirs  of  breakfast  time. 
I  filled  the  interval  in  w  Iking  softly  ;ibout  my 
room,  and  pondering  the  visitation  wliich  had 
given  my  plans  their  presi  nt  bent.  I  recalle<l 
that  inward  stnsnlion  I  h.ifl  .experienced  ;  for  I 
could  recall  it,  wiih  all  its  un  peakable  strange- 
ness. I  recalled  the  voice  1  ad  heard  ;  again 
I  <|ucslioned  whence  it  came,  ^s  vainly  as  be- 
fore ;  it  seemed  in  mc — not  i  ■  the  external 
world.  I  asked,  was  it  a  men  nervous  im- 
pression— a  (l<;hision]  I  could  nc  conceive  or 
believo  it  ;  it  was  more  like  an  'ns|jiration. 
The  wondrous  shock  of  feeling  Iuim  come  like 
the  earthquake  which  shook  the  foun  itions  of 
Paul  and  Silas's  prison  ;  it  had  op.  ned  the 
doors  <if  the  soul's  cell,  and  loosed  its  hands — 
it  bail  wakened  it  out  of  its  sleep,  wn^nce  it 
sprung  Ireiuliling,  listening.  aglia.>l ;  ibfii  vi- 
briiicil  thrice  a  cry  on  my  startled  ear,  an.i  in 
niy  quiiking  heart,  and  through  my  spii'l; 
wbici,  neither  feared  nor  shook,  but  exulted  as 
il  in  joy  iivtM-  the  success  of  one  eflori  it  bad 
br<'n  piivi|,.(r,.a  lo  make,  independent  of  the 
CUmbroviS  tuuly. 


"Ere  many  days"  I  said,  ss  I  Irrminatcrf 
my  musings,  "1  will  know  simieibing  of  ii.ra 
wliose  voice  seemed  last  niglit  to  siimmotj  me. 
Letters  have  proved  of  no  avail — personal  in 
quiry  shall  replace  them." 

At  breakfast,  I  announced  to  Diana  and  Marj 
that  I  was  going  a  journey,  and  should  be  ab 
sent  at  least  four  days. 

"Alone,  Jane V  they  aske<1. 

"  Yes ;  il  was  to  see,  or  hear  news  of,  a 
friend  about  whom  I  had  for  some  time  been 
uneasy." 

They  might  have  said,  as  I  have  no  donbt 
they  thought,  that  they  had  believed  me  to  be 
without  any  friends  save  them  ;  for,  indeed,  I 
had  often  said  so  ;  but  with  their  true  natural 
delicacy,  they  abstained  from  comment ;  ex- 
cept that  Diana  asked  me  if  I  was  sure  I  was 
well  enough  to  travel.  I  looked  very  pale,  she 
observed.  I  replied  that  nothing  ailed  me  save 
anxiety  of  mind,  which  I  hoped  soon  to  alleri- 
ate. 

It  was  easy  to  make  my  further  arrange- 
ments ;  for  I  was  troubled  with  no  inquiries — 
no  suifniises.  Having  once  explained  to  then* 
that  I  could  not  now  be  explicit  about  my  ' 
plans,  they  kindly  and  wisely  acqui'esced  in  the 
silence  wiih  which  I  pursued  them  ;  according 
to  me  the  privilege  of  free  action  I  shcmli^ 
under  similar  circumstances,  have  accorded 
them. 

I  left  Moor  House  at  three  o'clock,  p  m.,  and, 
so(m  after  four,  I  stood  at  the  foot  <if  the  sign- 
post ai  Whiicross,  wailing  the  arrival  of  the 
coach  which  was  to  lake  rue  to  distant  Thorn- 
field.  Amid  the  silence  of  those  solitary  roads 
and  desert  hills,  1  heard  it  ap[iroacli  from  a 
great  distance.  It  was  the  same  vehicle 
whence,  a  year  ago,  I  bad  alighted  one  summer 
evening  on  ibis  very  spot — how  desolate,  and 
hopeless,  and  objeclless  !  Ii  stopped  as  1  beck- 
oned. I  tniered — not  «ow obliged  lo  part  with 
my  wh<ile  fortune  as  the  price  of  its  accomrao- 
(laiion.  Once  more  on  the  road  lo  Tliornfield, 
I  felt  like  the  messenger  pigeon  flying  home. 

II  was  a  journey  (if  six-and-tbirty  hovrs.  I 
had  set  <uU  from  Whiicross  <m  a  Tuesday  af- 
ternonn,  and  early  on  the  succeed.:-.^  Thursday 
morning  lhec<iacb  slopped  to  water  the  horses 
at  a  wayside  inn,  situated  in  the  midst  of  scen- 
ery whose  green  hedges  and  large  fields,  and 
low,  pastoral  hills  (how  mild  of  feature  and 
verdant  of  hue  compared  with  th<?  stern  north- 
midland  moors  of  MorKm  I)  met  my  eye  like 
the  lineaments  of  a  once  familiar  face.  Yes,  I 
knew  the  character  of  this  landscape  :  I  was 
sure  we  were  near  my  bourn. 

"How  far  is  Tliornfield  Hall  from  herd"  I 
asked  of  the  hostler.  * 

"Just  two  miles,  ma'am,  across  the  fitma.** 
"  My  jiiurney  is  closed,"  I  thougtt  to  myself. 
I  got  out  of  the  coach,  gave  a  box  1  had  into 
the  hostler's  charge,  to  be  kept  till  I  callei^  for 
it ;  jiaid  my  f.ire  ;  satisfied  the  coachman,  and 
was  going  :  ilu;  brightening  ihiy  gleaiued  on  the 
sgn  of  the  inn,  and  I  read  in  gill  letier.<5  " 'J'ho 
RurlK  ster  .\rms."  .My  heart  le,i|icil  up  ;  1  was 
already  on  my  master's  very  lands.  It  fell 
again  :  the  tbonghl  struck  it  : 
'  "  Your  master  himself  may  he  hryond  the 
nritish  Chiiniiel,  f  .raiadit  yi'U  know  ;  and  then, 
if  he  is  at  Tboruficld  Hall,  toward  which  you 


JANE  EYRE. 


163 


hasten,  who  besides  him  is  there !  His  lunatic 
wife;  and  you  liave  nothing  to  do  with  "him; 
you  dare  not  speak  to  him  or  seek  his  pres- 
ence. You  have  lost  your  labor — you  had  bet- 
ter go  no  farther,"  urged  ttie  monitor.  "Ask 
information  of  the  people  at  the  inn  ;  they  can 
give  you  all  you  seek:  they  can  solve  your 
doubts  at  once.  Go  up  to  that  man,  and  in- 
quire if  Mr.  Rochester  be  at  home." 

The  suggestion  was  sensible ;  and  yet  I 
could  not  force  myself  to  act  on  it.  I  so 
dreaded  a  reply  that  would  crush  me  with  de- 
spair. To  prolong  doubt  was  to  prolong  hope. 
I  might  yet  once  more  see  the  Hall  under  the 
ray  of  her  star.  There  was  the  stile  before  me 
— the  very  fields  through  which  I  had  hurried, 
blind,  deaf,  distracted,  with  a  revengeful  fury 
tracking  and  scourging  me,  on  the  morning  I 
fled  from  Tliornfield  :  ere  I  well  knew  what 
course  I  had  resolved  to  take,  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  them.  How  fast  I  walked  !  How  I 
ran  sometimes !  How  I  looked  forward  to 
catch  the  first  view  of  the  well-known  woods  I 
With  what  feelings  I  welcomed  single  trees  I 
knew,  and  familiar  glimpses  of  meadow  and 
hill  between  them  ! 

At  last  the  woods  rose  ;  the  rookery  clus- 
tered dark ;  a  loud  cawing  broke  the  morn- 
ing stillness.  Strange  delight  inspired  me  : 
on  I  hastened.  Another  fielil  crossed — a  lane 
threaded — and  there  were  the  court-yard  walls 
— the  back  offices  ;  the  house  itself,  the  rook- 
ery still  hid. 

"My  first  view  of  it  shall  be  in  front,"  I  de- 
termined, "  wliere  its  bold  battlements  will 
strike  the  eye  nobly  at  once,  and  where  I  can 
fiuglc  out  my  master's  very  window ;  perhaps 
he  will  be  standing  at  it — he  rises  early  :  perhaps 
lie  is  now  walking  in  the  orchard,  or  on  the 
pavement  in  front.  Could  I  but  see  him  ! — but 
a  moment  I  Surely,  in  that  case,  I  should  not 
be  so  mad  as  to  run  to  him  !  I  can  hot  tell — I 
am  not,  certain.  And  jf  I  did — what  then  ! 
God  bless  iiim  !  What  then  1  Who  would  be 
hurl  by  my  <mce  more  tastftig  the  life  his  glance 
ea.'i  give  me! — I  rave  ;  perhaps  at  this  moment 
he  is  watching  the  sun  rise  over  the  Pyrenees, 
or  on  the'lideless  sea  of  the  south." 

I  had  coasted  along  the  lower  wall  of  the 
orchard — turned  its  angle ;  there  was  a  gate 
just  there,  opening  into  the  meadow,  between 
two  stone  pdlars,  crowned  by  stone  balls.  From 
behind  one  pillar  1  could  peep  round  quietly  at 
the  full  front  of  the  mansion.  I  advanced  my 
head  with  piecaution,  desirous  .to  ascertain  if 
any  bedriHim  window-blinds  were  yet  drawn 
up  :  haltlemcnls,  windows,  long  front — all  from 
this  sheltered  station  were  at  my  command. 

The  crows  sailing  overhead  perhaps  watched 
me. while  I  took  this  survey.  I  wonder  what 
thr-y  thought ;  they  must  have  considered  I 
was  very  careful  and  timid  at  first,  and  that 
gradually  I  grew  very  bold  and  reckless.  A 
peep,  and  then  a  long  stare ;  and  then  a  de- 
parture from  my  niche  and  a  straying  out  into 
the  meadow  ;  and  a  sudden  stop  full  in  front  of 
the  great  mansion,  and  a  protracted,  hardy^aze 
toward  it.  "  What  affectation  of  dithdence 
■^fas  tliis  at  first!"  they  might  have  demanded, 
"  What  stupid  rpgardlessness  now  !" 

Hear  an  illiistraiinn,  reader. 

A  Jover  linds  his  mistress  asleep  on  a  mossy 


hank  ;  he  wishes  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  fair 
face  without  waking  her.  He  steals  softly  over 
the  grass,  careful  ti)  make  no  sound  ;  he  pauses 
— fancying  she  has  s'irred  :  he  withdraws  ;  not 
for  worlds  would  he  be  seen.  All  is  stdl — he 
auain  advances — he  bends  above  her;  a  light 
veil  rests  on  her  features  ;  he  lifts  it,  bends 
lower ;  now  his  eyes  anticipate  the  vision  of 
beauty — warm  and  blooming  and  lovely  in  rest. 
How  Imrried  was  their  first  glance!  But  how 
they  fi.v  !  How  he  starts !  How  he  suddenly 
and  vehemently  clasps  in  both  arms  the  form 
he  dare  not,  a  moment  since,  touch  with  his 
finger !  Hov/  he  calls  aloud  a  name,  and  drops 
his  burden,  and  gazes  on  it  wildly!  He  thus 
grasps  and  cries,  and  gazes,  because  he  no  lon- 
ger fears  to-waken  by  any  sound  he  can  utter — 
by  any  movement  he  can  make.  He  thought 
his  love  slept  sweetly;  he  finds  she  is  stone- 
dead. 

I  looked  with  timorous  joy  toward  a  stately 
house  ;  I  saw  a  blackened  ruin. 

No  need  to  cower  behind  a  gate-post,  indeed  f 
to  peep  up  at  chamber  lattices,  fearing  life  was 
astir  behind  them  !  No  need  to  listen  fordours 
opening — to  fancy  steps  on  the  pavement  or  the 
gravel-walk  !  The  lawn,  the  grounds  were 
trodden  and  waste  ;  the  portal  yawned  void. 
The  front  was,  as  I  had  once  seen  it  in  a  dream, 
but  a  shell-like  wall,  very  high  and  very  fragile- 
looking,  perforated  with  panclcss  windows;  no 
roof,  no  battlements,  no  chimneys  —  all  had 
crashed  in. 

And  there  was  the  silence  of  death  about  it ; 
the  solitude  of  a  lonesome  wild.  No  wonder 
that  letters  addressed  to  people  here  had  never 
received  an  answer ;  as  well  dispatch  epistles 
to  a  vault  in  a  church-aisle.  The  grim  black- 
ness of  the  stones  told  by  what  fate  the  Hall 
had  fallen — by  conflagration  ;  but  how  kindh'd  ? 
What  story  belonged  to  this  disaster?  What 
loss,  besides  mortar, and  marble,  and  woodwork, 
had  followed  upon  iti  Had  life  been  wrecked, 
as  well  as  property  1  If  so,  whose  I  Dreadful 
question  ;  there  was  lio  one  here  to  answer  it — 
not  even  dumb  sign,  mute  token. 

In  wandering  rotmd  the  shattered  walls  and 
through  the  devastated  interior,  1  gathered  evi- 
dence that  the  calamity  was  not  of  lair;  occur- 
rence. Winter  snows,  I  thought,  had  drifted 
through  that  void  arch,  winter  rains  heatea 
in  at  those  hollow  casements;  fi)i,  amid  the 
drenched  piles  of  rubbish,  spring  had  cherished 
vegetation  ;  grass  and  weed  grew  here  and 
there  between  the  stones  and  fallen  rafters. 
And,  oh!  where,  meantime,  was  the  hapless 
owner  of  this  wreck  ?  In  what  land!  Under 
what  auspices?  My  eye  involuntarily  wander- 
ed to  ilie  gray  church  tower  near  the  gates,  and 
1  asked,  "  Is  lie  with  Danier  de  Rochester,  shar- 
ing the  shelter  of  his  narrow  marble  house  1" 

Some  answer  must  he  had  lo  these  questions. 
I  could  find  it  nowherg  but  at  the  inn  ;  and  thith- 
er, ere  long,  I  returned.  The  host  himself 
brought  my  breakfast  into  the  parlor.  I  request- 
ed him  to  shut  the  door  and  sit  down ;  1  had 
some  (luesiions  lo  ask  him  But  when  he  cotn- 
|)!ie<!,  I  scarcely  knew  how  to  begin  ;  such  hor- 
r<ir  had  I  of  the  possiblo  answers.  And  yetllM 
spectacle  of  desolation  I  ha<l  jtist  left  prepared 
me  in  a  measure  for  a  tale  of  misery.  The  host 
was  a  rcspectable-lookin;;  middle-aged  man. 


164 


JANE  EYRE. 


F  "You  know  Thomfield  Hall,  of  course  1"  I 
managed  to  say  at  last. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  I  lived  there  once." 

"DidyouT"'  Not  in  my  lime,  I  thought :  you 
ar*a  stranger  to  me.        ' 

"  I  was  the  late  Mr.  Rochester's  butler,"  he 
added. 

The  late  I  I  seemed  to  have  received  with 
full  force  the  blow  I  had  been  trying  to  evade. 

"  The  late  !"  I  gasped.     "  Is  he  dead  V 

"  I  mean  the  father  of  Mr.  Ed  ward,  the  present 
gentleman,"  he  explained.  I  breathed  again; 
my  blood  resumed  it  flow.  Fully  assured  by 
these  words  that  Mr.  Edward — my  Mr.  Roch- 
ester (God  bless  him,  wherever  he  was !)  was 
at  least  alive  :  was,  in  short,  "  the  present  gen- 
tleman" (gladdening  words !),  it  seemed  I  could' 
hear  all  that  was  to  come — whatever  the  dis- 
closures might  be — with  comparative  tranquil- 
lity. Since  he  was  not  in  the  grave,  I  could 
bear,  I  thought,  to  learn  that  he  was  at  the  An- 
tipodes. 

"  Is  Mr.  Rochester  living  at  Thornfieid  Hall 
TiowV  I  asked,  knowing,  of  course,  what  the 
-answer  would  be,  but  yet  desirous  of  deferring 
the  direct  question  as  to  where  he  really  was. 

"No,  ma'am — oh,  no !  No  one  is  living  there. 
I  suppose  you  are  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  or 
you  would  have  heard  what  happened  last  au- 
tumn. Thornfieid  Halt  is  quite  a  ruin  ;  it  was 
burned  down  just  about  harvest  time.  A  dread- 
ful calamity!  such  an  immense  quantity  of  val- 
uable properly  destroyed ;  hardly  any  of  the  fur- 
niture could  be  saved.  The  fire  broke  out  at  dead 
of  night,  and  before  the  engines  arrived  from 
Millcote.the  building  was  one  mass  of  flame.  It 
was  a  terrible  spectacle ;  I  witnessed  it  myself" 

"At  dead  of  night !"  I  muttered.  Yes,  that 
was  ever  the  hour  of  fatality  at  Thornfieid. 
"Was  it  known  how  it  originated  1"  I  demanded. 

"  They  guessed,  ma'am  .  they  guessed.  In- 
deed, I  should  say  it  was  ascertained  beyond  a 
doubt.  You  are  not  perhaps  aware,"  he  con- 
tinued, edging  his  chair  a  little  nearer  the  table, 
and  speaking  low,  "  that  there  was  lady — a — a 
lunatic,  kept  in  the  house  1" 

"  I  have  heard  something  of  it." 

"  She  was  kept  in  very  close  confinement, 
ma'am  ;  people  even  for  some  years  were  not 
absolutely  certain  of  her  existence.  No  one 
saw  her  ;  they  only  knew  by  rumor  that  such 
a  person  was  at  the  Hall ;  and  who  or  what  she 
was  it  was  difficult  to  conjecture.  They  said 
Mr.  Edward  had  brought  her  from  abroad ;  and 
8omc  believed  she  had  been  his  mistress.  But 
a  queer  thing  happened  a  year  since — a  very 
queer  thing." 

I  feared  now  to  hear  my  own  story.  I  en- 
deavored to  recall  him  to  the  main  fact. 

'"And  this  lady!" 

"This  lady,  ma'am,"  he  answered,  "turned 
out  to  be  Mr.  Rochester's  wife  !  The  discovery 
Was  brought  about  in  the  slrangest  way.  There 
was  a  young  lady,  a  governess  at  the  Hall,  that 
Mr.  Rochester  fell  in—" 

"But  the  firel"  I  suggested. 

"I'm  coming  to  that,  ma'am— that  Mr.  Ed- 
ward fell  in  love  with.  The  servants  say  they 
n.evcr  saw  any  body  so  much  in  love  as  he  was  ; 
l>e  was  after  her  continually.  They  used  to 
watch  him— servants  will,  you  know,  ma'am— 
and  ho  set  slore  on  her  past  every  thing;  for 


all,  nobody  but  him  thought  her  eo  Tery  hand- 
some. She  was  a  litlie  small  thing,  they  say, 
almost  like  a  child.  I  never  saw  her  myself; 
but  I've  heard  Leah,  the  housemaid,  tell  of  her. 
Leah  liked  her  well  enough.  Mr.  Rochester 
was  about  forty,  and  this  governess  not  twenty; 
and,  you  see,  when  gentlemen  of  his  age  fall  in 
love  with  girls,  they  are  often  like  as  if  they 
were  bewitched  :  well,  fie  would  marry  her." 

"  You  shall  tel!  n:e  this  part  of  the  story  an- 
other time,"  I  said  ;  but  now  I  have  a  particu- 
lar reason  for  wishing  to  hear  all  about  the  fire.  . 
Was  it  suspected  that  this  lunatic,  Mrs.  Roch- 
ester, had  any  hand  in  it  ?" 

"  You've  hit  it,  ma'am  :  it's  quite  certain  that 
it  v/as  her,  and  nobody  but  her,  that  set  it  going. 
She  had  a  woman  to  take  care  of  her  called 
Mrs.  Poole-T-an  able  woman  in  her  line,  and 
very  trustworthy ;  but  for  one  fault — a  fault 
common  to  a  deal  of  them  nurses  and  matrons 
— she  fc£pt  a  private  bottle  of  gin  by  her,  and  now 
and  then  took  a  drop  overmuch.  It's  excusa- 
ble, for  she  had  a  hard  life  of  it ;  but  still  it  was 
dangerous ;  for,  when  Mrs.  Poole  was  fast 
asleep,  after  the  gin  and  water,  the  mad  lady, 
who  was  as  cunning  as  a  witch,  would  take  the 
keys  out  of  her  pocket,  let  herself  out  of  her 
chamber,  and  go  roaming  about  the  house, 
doing  any  wild  mischief  that  came  into  her 
head.  They  say  she  had  nearly  burned  her 
husband  in  his  bed  once ;  but  I  don't  know 
about  that.  However,  on  this  night,  she  sat 
fire  first  to  the  hangings  of  the  room  next  her 
own  ;  and  then  she  got  down  to  a  lower  story, 
and  made  her  way  to  the  chamber  that  had 
been  the  governess's — (she  was  like  as  if  she 
knew  somehow  how  matters  had  gone  on,  and 
had  a  spite  at  her) — and  she  kindled  the  bed 
there ;  but  there  was  nobody  sleeping  in  it, 
fortunately.  The  governess  had  run  away  two 
months  before ;  and  for  all  Mr.  Rochester 
sought  her  as  if  she  had  been  the  most  pre- 
cious thing  he  had  in  the  world,  he  could  never 
hear  a  word  of  her ;  and  he  grew  quite  savage — 
quite  savage  on  his  disappointment ;  he  never 
was  a  wild  man,  but  he  got  dangerous  after  he 
lost  her.  He  would  be  alone,  too.  He  sent 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  the  housekeeper,  away  to  her 
friends  at  a  distance;  but  he  did  it  handsome- 
ly, for  he  settled  an  annuity  on  her  for  life  -,  and 
she  deserved  it — she  was  a  very  good  woman. 
Miss  Adele,  a  ward  he  had,  was  put  to  school. 
He  broke  off  acquaintance  with  all  the  gentry, 
and  shut  himself  up,  like  a  hermit,  at  the  Hall." 

"What!  did  he  not  leave  England  1" 

"  Leave  England  ?  Bless  you,  no  !  Ho 
would  not  cross  the  door-stones  of  the  house ; 
except  at  night,  when  he  walked  just  like  a 
ghost  about  the  grounds  and  in  the  orchard  as 
if  he  had  lost  his  senses — which  it  is  my  opin- 
ion he  had  ;  for  a  more  spirited,  bolder,  keener 
gentleman  than  he  was  before  that  midge  of  a 
governess  cros.sed  him,  you  never  saw,  ma'am. 
He  was  not  a  man  given  to  wine,  or  cards,  or 
racing,  as  some  are,  and  he  was  not  so  very 
handsome  ;  but  he  had  a  courage  and  a  will  of 
his  own,  if  ever  man  had.  I  knew  him  from  a 
boy,  you  see ;  and  for  my  part  I  have  often 
wished  that  Miss  Eyre  had  been  sunk  in  tha 
sea  before  she  came  to  Thornfieid  Hall." 

"Then  Mr.  Rochester  was  at  home  when 
the  fire  broke  out?' 


JANE  EYRE. 


165 


"  yes,  indeed  was  he  :  and  he  went  up  to  the 
attics  when  all  was  burning  above  and  below, 
and  got  the  servants  out  of  their  beds  and  help- 
ed them  down  himself — and  went  back  to  get 
bis  mad  wife  out  of  her  cell.  And  then  they 
called  out  to  him  that  she  Was  on  the  roof; 
where  she  was  standing,  waving  her,  arms, 
above  the  battlements,  and  shouting  out  till 
they  could  hear  her  a  mile  off;  I  heard  her,  and 
saw  her  with  my  own  eyes.  She  was  a  big 
woman,  and  had  long,  black  hair  ;  we  could  see 
it  streaming  against  the  flames  as  she  stood. 
I  witnessed,  and  several  more  witnessed,  Mr. 
Rochester  ascend  through  the  skylight  on  to 
the  roof;  we  heard  him  call  'Bertha!'  We 
saw  him  approach  her ;  and  then,  ma'am,  she 
yelled,  and  gave  a  spring,  and  the  next  minute 
she  lay  smashed  on  the  pavement." 

"Dead1" 

"  Dead  1  Ay,  dead  as  the  stones  on  which 
her  brains  and  blood  were  scattered." 

"  Good  God  !" 

"  You  may  well  say  so,  ma'am  :  it  was  fright- 
ful!" 

He  shuddered. 

"And  afterward  1"  I  urged. 

"Well,  ma'am,  afterward  the  house  was 
burned  to  the  ground  ;  there  are  only  some  bits 
of  wall  standing  now." 

"  Were  any  other  lives  lost  1" 

"No — perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if 
there  had." 

"What  do  you  mean  ]" 

"  Poor  Mr.  Edward  !"  he  ejaculated,  "  I  httle 
thought  ever  to  have  seen  it !  Some  say  it 
was  a  just  judgment  on  him  for  keeping  his 
first  marriage  secret,  and  wanting  to  take  an- 
other wife  while  he  had  one  living ;  but  I  pity 
him,  for  my  part."     — ' 

"You  said  he  was  alive  1"  I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  yes — he  is  alive  ;  but  many  think  he 
had  better  be  dead." 

"  Why  ?  How  1 "  My  blood  was  again  run- 
ning cold. 

"Where  is  hel"  I  demanded.  "Is  he  in 
England?" 

"Ay — ay — he  is  in  England;  he  can't  get 
ott  of  England,  I  fancy — he's  a  fixture  now." 

What  agony  was  this?  And  the  man  seem- 
ed resolved  to  protract  it ! 

"  He  is  stone-blind,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Yes 
— he  is  stone-blind — is  Mr.  Edward." 

I  had  dreaded  worse.  I  had  dreaded  he  Was 
mad.  I  summoned  strength  to  ask  what  had 
caused  this  calamity. 

"It  was  all  his  own  courage,  and,  a  body 
may  say,  his  kindness,  in  a  way,  ma'am  ;  he 
wouldn't  leave  the  house  till  every  one  else 
was  out  before  him.  As  he  came  down  the 
great  stair-case  at  last,, after  Mrs.  Rochester 
had  flung  herself  from  the  battlements,  there 
was  a  great  crash — all  fell.  He  was  taken  out 
from  under  the  ruins,  alive,  but  sadly  hurt;  a 
beam  had  fallen  in  such  a  way  as  to  protect 
him  partly  ;  but  one  eye  was  knocked  out,  and 
one  hand  so  crushed  that  Mr.  Carter,  the  sur- 
geon, had  to  amputate  it  directly.  The  other 
eye  inflamed ;  he  lost  the  sight  of  that  also. 
He  is  now  helpless,  indeed — blind  and  a  crip- 
ple." 

"  Where  is  he  1     Where  does  he  now  live  1" 

"At  Ferndean,  a  manor-house  on  a  farm  he 


has,  about  thirty  miles  off;  quite  a  desolate 
spot." 

"Who  is  with  him'?" 

"  Old  John  and  his  wife ;  he  would  have 
none  else.  He  is  quite  broken  down,  they 
say." 

Have  you  any  sort  of  conveyance?" 

"  We  have  a  chaise,  ma'am — a  very  hand- 
some chaise." 

"  Let  it  be  got  ready  instantly  ;  and  if  your 
post-boy  can  drive  me  to  Ferndean  before  dark 
this  day,  I'll  pay  both  you  and  him  twice  the 
hire  you  usually  demand." 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

The  manor-house  of  Ferndean  was  a  build* 
ing  of  considerable  antiquity,  moderate  size, 
and  no  architectural  pretensions,  deep  buried  in 
a  wood.  I  had  heard  of  it  before.  Mr.  Roch- 
ester often  spoke  of  it,  and  sometimes  went 
there.  His  father  had  purchased  the  estate  for 
the  sake  of  the  game  covers.  He  would  have 
let  the  house,  but  could  find  no  tenant,  in  con- 
sequence of  its  ineligible  and  insalubrious  site. 
Ferndean  then  remained  uninhabited  and  un- 
furnished, with  the  exception  of  some  two  or 
three  rooms  fitted  up  for  the  accommodation 
of  the  squire  when  he  went  there  in  the  season 
to  shoot. 

To  this  house  I  came,  just  ere  dark,  on  ao 
evening  marked  by  the  characteristics  of  sad 
sky,  cold  gale,  and  continued  small,  penetrating 
rain.  The  last  mile  I  performed  on  foot,  hav- 
ing dismissed  the  chaise  and  driver  with  the 
double  remuneration  I  had  promised.  Even 
wheft  within  a  very  short  distance  of  the  man- 
or-house, you  could  see  nothing  of  it ;  so  thick 
and  dark  grew  the  timber  of  the  gloomy  wood 
about  it.  Iron  gates  between  granite  pillars 
showed  me  where  to  enter,  and  passing  through 
them,  I  found  myself  at  once  in  the  twilight  of 
close-ranked  trees.  There  was  a'grass-grown 
track  descending  the  forest-aisle,  between  hoar 
and  knotty  shafts  and  under  branched  arches. 
I  followed  it,  .expecting  soon  to  reach  the 
dwelling ;  but  it  stretched  on  and  on,  it  wound 
far  and  farther  ;  no  sign  of  habitation  or  grounds 
was  visible. 

I  thought  I  had  taken  a  wrong  direction  and 
lost  ray  way.  The  darkness  of  natural  as  well 
as  of  sylvan  dusk  gathered  over  me;  I  looked 
round  in  search  of  another  road.  There  was 
none ;  all  was  interwoven  stem,  columnar 
trunk,  dense,  summer  foliage — no  opening  any 
where. 

I  proceeded ;  at  last  my  way  opened,  the 
trees  thinned  a  little  ;  presently  I  beheld  a  rail- 
ing, then  the  house — scarce,  by  this  dim  light, 
distinguishable  from  the  trees;  so  dank  and 
green  were  its  decaying  walls.  Entering  a 
portal,  fastened  only  by  a  latch,  I  stood  amid 
a  space  of  inclosed  ground,  from  which  the 
wood  swept  away  in  a  semicircle.  There  were 
no  flowers,  no  garden-beds ;  only  a  broad  grav- 
el-walk girdling  a  grass-plat,  and  this  set  ia 
the  heavy  frame  of  the  forest.  The  house  pre- 
sented two  pointed  gables  in  its  front ;  tke 
windows  were  latticed  and  narrow  ;  the  front- 
door was  narrow  too,  one  step  led  up  to  it. 
The  whole  looked,  aa  the  host  of  the  Roches- 


168 


JANE  EYRE. 


ter  Arms  had  said,  "quite  a  desolate  spot."  It 
was  as  still  as  a  church  on  a  week  day — the 
pattering  rain  on  the  forest  leaves  was  the  only 
sound  audible  in  its  vicinage. 

"Can  there  be  life  hereV  I  asked. 

Yes  :  life  of  some  kind  there  was,  for  I  heard 
a  movennent — that  narrow  fiont-door  was  un- 
closing, and  some  shape  was  about  to  issue 
from  the  grange. 

It  opened  slowly :  a  figure  came  OLt  into  the 
twilight  and  stood  on  the  step  ;  a  man  without 
a  hat  :  he  stretched  forth  his  hand  as  if  to  feel 
whether  it  rained.  Dusk  as  it  was,  I  had  rec- 
ognized him  :  it  was  my  master,  Edward  Fair- 
fax Rochester,  and  no  other. 

I  stayed  my  step,  almost  my  breath,  and 
stood  to  watch  him — to  examine  him,  myself 
unseen,  and,  alas !  to  him  invisible.  It  was  a 
sudden  meeting,  and  one  in  which  rapture  was 
kept  well  in  check  by  pain.  I  had  no  difficulty 
in  restraining  my  voice  from  exclamation,  my 
step  from  hasty  advance. 

His  form  was  of  the  same  strong  and  stal- 
wart contour  as  ever :  his  port  was  still  erect, 
his  hair  was  still  raven  black ;  nor  were  his 
features  altered  or  sunk :  not  in  one  year's 
space,  by  any  sorrow,  could  his  athletic  strength 
be  quelled,  or  his  vigorous  prime  blighted.  But 
in  his  countenance  I  saw  a  change  :  that  look- 
ed desperate  and  brooding — that  reminded  me 
of  some  wronged  and  fettered  wild  beast  or  bird, 
dangerous  to  approach  in  his  sullen  woe.  The 
caged  eagle,  whose  gold-ringed  eyes  cruelty  has 
extinguished,  might  look  as  looked  that  sight- 
less Samson. 

And,  reader,  do  you  think  I  feared  him  in  his 
blind  ferocity  1  If  you  do,  you  liltle  knovf  me. 
A  soft  hope  blended  wiih  my  sorrow  that  soon 
I  should  dare  to  drop  a  kiss  on  that  brow  of 
rock,  and  on  those  lids  so  sternly  sealed  be- 
neath it:  but  notyet.  I  would  not  accost  him 
yefr. 

He  descended  the  one  step,  and  advanced 
slowly  and  gropingly  toward  the  grass-plat. 
Where  was  his  ilaring  stride  nowl  Then  he 
paused,  as  if  he  knew  not  wl)ich  way  to  turn. 
He  lifted  his  hand  and  opened  his  eyelids; 
gazed  blank,  and  with  a  straining  efTort,  on  the 
sky,  and  toward  the  amphilheater  of  trees, 
one  saw  that  all  to  him  was  void  darkness. 
He  stretched  his  right  hand  (the  left  arm,  the 
mutilated  one  he  kept  hidden  in  his  bosom) ; 
he  seemed  to  wish,  by  touch,  to  gain  an  idea  of 
what  lay  round  him:  he  met  but  vacancy  still, 
for  the  trees  were  some  yards  off  where  he 
stood.  He  relinquished  the  endeavor,  folded 
his  arms,  and  stood  quiet  and  mute  in  the  rain, 
now  falling  fast  on  his  uncovered  head.  At 
this  moment  John  approached  from  some  quar- 
ter. 

"Will  you  take  my  arm,  sir!"  he  said; 
"  there  is  a  heavy  shower  coming  on  ;  had  you 
not  better  go  in  I" 

"  Let  me  alone,"  was  the  answer. 

Jolin  withdrew,  wiihout  having  observed  me. 
Mr.  Rochester  now  tried  to  walk  about,  vainly 
— all  was  too  uncertain.  He  groped  his  way 
hack  to  the  house,  and,  re-entering  it,  closed 
the  door. 

I  now  drew  near  and  knocked  ;  John's  wife 
opened  fur  me.  •'  Mary,"  I  said,  "  how  are 
you]" 


She  started  as  if  she  had  seen  a  ghost ;  I 
calmed  her.  To  her  hurried  "Is  it  really  you, 
miss,  come  at  this  late  hour  to  thia  'only 
placet"  I  answered  by  taking  her  hand,  and 
then  I  followed"  her  into  the  kitchen,  where 
John  now  sat  by  a  good  fire.  I  explained  to 
them,  in  few  words,  that  I  had  heard  all  which 
had  happened  since  I  left  Thornfield,  and  that 
I  was  come  to  see  Mr.  Rochester.  I  asked 
John  to  go  down  to  the  turnpike-house,  where 
I  had  dismissed  the  chaise,  and  bring  my 
trunk,  which  I  had  left  there ;  and  then,  while 
I  removed  my  bonnet  and  shawl,  I  questioned 
Mary  as  to  whether  I  could  be  accommodated 
at  the  manor-house  for  the  night,  and  finding 
that  arrangements  to  that  efTect,  though  diffi- 
cult,  would  not  be  impossible,  I  informed  her  I 
should  stay.  Just  at  this  moment  the  parlor- 
bell  rung. 

"  When  you  go  in,"  said  I,  "  tell  your  master 
that  a  person  wishes  to  speak  to  him,  but  do 
not  give  my  name." 

"  I  don't  think  he  will  see  you,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  he  refuses  every  body." 

When  she  returned,  I  inquired  what  he  had 
said. 

"  You  are  to  send  in  your  name  and  your 
business,"  she  replied.  She  then  proceeded  to 
fill  a  glass  with  water,  and  place  it  on  a  tray, 
together  with  candles. 

"  Is  that  what  he  rung  fori"  I  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  he  always  has  candles  brought  in  at 
dark,  though  he  is  blind." 

"  Give  the  tray  to  me  ;  I  will  carry  it  in." 

I  took  it  from  her  hand  ;  she  pointed  me  out 
the  parlor  door.  The  tray  shook  as  I  held  it, 
the  water  spilled  from  the  glass,  my  heart 
struck  my  ribs  loud  and  fast.  Mary  opened 
the  door  lor  me,  and  shut  it  behind  me. 

This  parlor  looked  gloomy ;  a  neglected 
handful  of  fire  burned  low  in  the  grate,  and, 
leaning  over  if,  with  his  head  supported  against 
the  high,  old-iashioned  mantle-piece,  appeared 
the  blind  tenant  of  the  room.  His  old  dog, 
Pilot,  lay  on  one  side,  removed  out  of  the  way, 
and  coiled  up  as  if  afraid  of  being  inadvertently 
trodden  on.  Pilot  pricked  up  his  ears  when  I 
came  in,  then  he  jumped  up  with  a  yelp  and  a 
whine,  and  bounded  toward  me  ;  he  almost 
knocked  the  tray  from  my  hands.  I  set  it  on 
the  table,  then  patted  him,  and  said  softly,  "Lie 
doWn  !"  Mr.  Rochester  turned  mechanically 
to  see  what  the  commotion  was  ;  but  as  he 
saw  nothing,  he  returned  and  sighed. 

"  Give  me  the  water,  Mary,"  he  said. 

I  approached  him  with  the  now  only  half-  • 
filled  glass  ;  Pilot  followed  me.  still  excited. 

"  What  is  the  matter?'  he  inquired. 

"  Down,  Pilot !"'  I  again  said.  He  checked 
the  water  on  its  way  to  his  lips,  and  seemed  t© 
listen ;  he  drank,  and  put  the  glass  down. 
"  This  is  you,  Mary,  is  it  not  \" 

"  Mary  is  in  the  kitchen,"  I  answered. 

He  put  out  his  hand  with  a  quick  gesture, 
but  not  seeing  where  I  stood,  he  did  not  touch 
me.  "Who  is  this!  Who  is  this?"  he  de- 
manded, trying,  as  it  seemed,  to  see  with  those 
sightless  eyes — unavailing  and  distressing  at- 
tempt,! "Answer  me— speak  again!"  he  or- 
dered, imperiously  and  aloud. 

"  Will  you  have  a  little  more  water,  sirl  I 
spilled  half  of  what  was  in  the  glass,"  I  said. 


JANE  EYRE. 


1G7 


♦•  Who  is  it  1     What  is  it !     Who  speaks  1" 

"Piliit  knows  me,  ami  John  and  Mary  know 
1  am  liere ;  I  came  only  ihis  evening,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  Orcnt  God  ! — what  delusion  has  come  over 
me?     What  sweet  madness  has  seized  mel" 

"No  delusion — no  madness;  your  mind,  sir, 
is  too  stron(^  for  delusion — your  health  too 
sound  for  frenzy." 

"  And  where  is  this  speaker  1  Is  it  only  a 
voice  !  Oh  !  I  can  not  see,  hut  I  must  feel,  or 
my  heart  will  stop  and  my  brain  burst.  What- 
ever— whoever  you  are — be  perceptible  to  the 
touch  or  I  can  not  live." 

He  groped  :  I  arrested  his  wandering  hand, 
and  prisoned  it  in  both  mine. 

"Her  very  fingers  !"  he  cried  ;  "  her  small 
slight  fingers !  If  so,  there  must  be  more  of 
her." 

The  muscular  hand  broke  from  my  custody  ; 
my  arm  was  seized,  my  shoulder — neck — waist 
— I  was  entwined  and  gathered  to  him. 

"Is  it  Janet  What  is  it  1  This  is  her 
shape^ — this  is  her  size — " 

"And  this  is  her  voice,"  I  added.  "She  is 
all  here :  her  heart,  too.  God  bless  you,  sir  1 
I  am  glad  to  he  so  near  you  again." 

"  Jane  Eyre  !  Jane  Eyre  !"  was  all  he  said. 

"My  dear  master,"  I  answered,  "  I  am  Jane 
Eyre  ;  I  have  found  you  out — I  am  come  back 
to  you." 

"In  truth?  in  the  flesh?  '  My  living  Jane?" 

"You  touch  me,  sir — you  hold  me,  and  fast 
enough  ;  I  am  not  cold  like  a  corpse,  nor  vacant 
like  air.  am  1?" 

"My  living  darling!  These  are  certainly 
lier  limbs,  and  these  her  features  :  t)ul  I  can  not 
be  so  blessed  after  all  my  misery.  It  is  a  dreain  ; 
such  dreams  as  I  have  had  at  niglil  when  I 
liave  clasped  her  once  more  to  iriy  heart,  as  I 
do  now ;  and  kissed  her,  as  thus — ami  felt  that 
she  loved  me,  and  trusted  she  would  not  leave 
me." 

"Which  I  never  will,  sir,  from  this  day." 

"  Never  will,  says  the  vision  !  But  I  always 
woke  and  found  it  an  empty  mockery  ;  and  I 
"Was  desolate  and  abandoned — my  life,  dark, 
lonely,  hopeless — my  soul  athirst  and  Ibrbidden 
to  drink — my  heart  famished  and  never  to  be 
fed.  Gentle,  soft  dream,  nestling  in  my  arms 
now,  you  will  fly,  too;  as  your  sisters  have  all 
fled  before  you ;  but  kiss  me  before  you  go — 
embrace  me,  Jane." 

"  There,  sir — and  there  !" 

I  pressed  my  lips  to  his  once  brilliant  and 
BOW  rayless  eyes — I  swept  his  hair  from  his 
brow,  and  kissed  that  too.  He  suddenly  seem- 
ed t«»  rouse  himself;  the  conviction  of  the 
reality  of  all  this  seized  him. 

"  It  is  you — is  it  Jane  ?  You  are  come  back 
to  me  then?" 

"  I  am." 

•'  And  you  do  not  lie  dead  in  some  ditch,  un- 
der some  stream?  And  you  are  not  a  pining 
outcast  among  strangers  V 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  am  an  independent  woman  now." 

"  Independent !     What  do  you  mean,  Jane  ?" 

"My  uncle  in  Madeira  is  dead,  and  he  left 
me  five  thousand  pounds." 

"Ah,  this  is  practical — this  is  real?'*  he 
cri«id  :  "  I  should  never  dream  that.  Besides, 
Uiiiie  ia  that  peculiar  voice  of  hers,  so  anima- 


ting and  piquant,  as  well  as  soft;  it  cheers  my 

wiihered  lieart ;  it  puts  life  into  it.  What, 
Janet!  Are  you  an  mdependent  woraanl  A 
rich  woman  ?" 

"Quite  rich,  sir.  If  you  wont  let  me  live 
with  you,  1  can  build  a  house  of  my  own,  close 
up  to  your  door,  and  you  may  come  and  sit  in 
my  parlor  when  you  want  company  of  an  even- 
ing." 

"  But  as  you  are  rich,  Jane,  you  have  now, 
no  doubt,  friends  who  will  look  after  you,  and 
not  sufl^er  you  to  devote  yourself  to  a  blind 
lameter  like  me?" 

"  1  told  you  I  am  independent,  sir,  as  well  as 
rich  ;  I  am  my  own  mistress." 

"  And  you  will  stay  with  me?" 

"  Certainly — unless  you  object.  I  will  be 
your  neighbor,  your  nurse,  your  housekeeper. 
I  find  you  lonely  ;  I  will  be  your  companion — 
to  read  to  you,  to  walk  with  you,  to  sit  with 
you,  to  wait  on  you,  to  be  eyes  and  hands  to 
you.  Cease  to  look  so  melancholy,  my  dear 
master  ;  you  shall  not  be  left  desolate,  so  long 
as  I  live." 

He  replied  not ;  he  seemed  serious— ab- 
stracted :  he  sighed  ;  he  half-opened  his  lipa 
as  if  to  speak;  he  closed  them  again.  I  felt 
a  little  embarrassed.  Perhaps  I  had  been  too 
officious  in  my  offers  of  companionship  and 
aid  :  perhaps  I  had  too  rashly  overleaped  con- 
venlionalilies,  and  he,  like  St.  John,  saw  im- 
propriety in  my  inconsiderateness.  I  iiad  in- 
deed made  my  proposal  from  the  idea  that  ho 
wished  and  vvou'd  ask  me  to  be  his  wife  :  an 
expectation,  not  the  less  certain  because  unex- 
pressed, had  buoyed  me  up,  that  he  would 
claim  me  at  once  as  his  own.  But  no  hint  to 
that  eflect  escaping  him,  and  his  countenance 
becoming  more  overcijst,  I. suddenly  remem- 
bered tiiat  I  might  have  been  all  wrong,  and 
was  perhaps  playing  the  fool  unwittingly  ;  and 
I  began  gently  to  wiihdraw  myself  Irom  his 
arms — but  he  eagerly  snatched  mc  cluser. 

"  No — no — Jane  ;  you  must  not  go.  No — I 
have  touched  you,  heard  you,  felt  llie  comfort 
of  your  piesence — the  sweetness  of  your  con- 
solation ;  I  can  not  give  up  these  joys.  I  have 
little  left  in  myself — I  must  have  you.  The 
world  may  laugh — may  call  me  absurd,  selfish 
— but  it  does  not  signify.  My  very  soul  de- 
mands you  ;  it  w  ill  be  satisfied  ;  or  it  will  take 
deadly  vengeance  on  its  frame." 

"Well,  sir,  I  will  stay  with  you;  I  have 
said  so." 

"  Yes — but  you  understand  one  thing  by 
staying  with  me,  and  I  understand  another. 
You,  perhaps,  could  make  up  your  mind  to  be 
about  my  hand  and  chair — to  wait  «)n  me  as  a 
kind  little-  nurse  (for  you  have  an  affectionate 
heajrt  and  a  generous  spirit,  which  prompt  you 
to  make  sacrilices  for  those  you  piiy),  and  that 
ought  to  suffice  for  me  no  doubt.  1  suppose  I 
siiould  now  entertain  none  but  fatherly  feelings 
for  you  ;  do  you  think  so  !     Come — tell  me." 

"I  will  think  what  you  like,  sir;  I  am  con- 
tent lo  be  only  your  nurse,  if  you  think  it 
better." 

"  But  you  can  not  always  he  my  nurse, 
Janet :  you  are  young  and  must  marry  one 
day." 

"  I  don't  care  about  being  married." 

"  You  should  care,  Janet ;  if  I  were  what  I 


166 


JANE  EYRS. 


once  was,  I  would  try  to  make  you  care— but — 
a  sightless  block  !" 

He  relapsed  again  into  gloora.  I,  on  the 
contrary,  became  more  cheerful  and  took  fresh 
courage  :  these  last  words  gave  me  an  insight 
as  to  where  the  difficulty  lay  ;  and  as  it  was  no 
difficulty  with  me,  I  felt  quite  relieved  from  my 
previous  embarrassment.  I  resumed  a  livelier 
vein  of  conversation. 

"  It  is  time  some  one  undertook  to  rehuman- 
i?^  you,"  said  I,  parting  his  thick  and  long- 
uncut  locks ;  for  I  see  you  are  being  meta- 
morphosed into  a  lion,  or  something  of  that 
sort.  You  have  a  '  faux  air'  of  Nebuchadnezzar 
in  the  fields  about  you,  that  is  certain  ;  your 
hair  reminds  me  of  eagle's  feathers  ;  "whether 
your  nails  are  grown  like  bird's  claws  or  not,  I 
have  not  yet  noticed." 

"  On  this  arm,  I  have  neither  hand  ■  nor 
nails ;  he  said,  drawing  the  mutilated  limb 
from  his  breast,  and  showing  it  to  me.  "  It  is 
a  mere  stump — a  ghastly  sight !  Don't  you 
think  so,  Jane  1 

"It  is  a  pity  to  see  it ;  and  a  pity  to  see 
your  eyes — and  the  scar  of  fire  on  your  fore- 
head :  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  one  is  in  danger 
of  loving  you  too  well  for  all  this,  and  making 
too  much  of  you." 

"  I  thought  you  would  be  revolted,  Jane, 
when  you  saw  my  arm  and  my  cicatrized 
visage." 

'*  Did  you  1  Don't  tell  me  so — lest  I  should 
aay  something  disparaging  to  your  judgment. 
Now,  let  me  leave  you  an  instant,  to  make 
a  better  fire  and  have  the  hearth  swept  up. 
Can  you  tell  when  there  is  a  good  fire  I" 

"  Yes  ;  with  the  right  eye  I  see  a  glow,  a 
ruddy  haze." 

"  And  you  see  the  candles  V' 

"  Very  dimly  ;  each  is  a  luminous  cloud." 

"  Can  you  see  me'!" 

"  No,  my  fairy ;  but  I  am  only  too  thankful 
to  hear  and  feel  you." 

"  When  do  you  take  supper  1" 

"  I  never  take  supper." 

•'  But  you  shall  have  some  to-night.  I  am 
hungry  :  so  are  you,  I  dare  say,  only  you  for- 
get." 

Summoning  Mary,  I  soon  had  the  room  in 
more  cheerful  order  ;  I  prepared  him  likewise 
a  comfortable  repast.  My  spirits  were  excited, 
and  with  pleasure  and  ease  I  talked  to  him 
during  supper,  and  for  a  long  time  after.  There 
was  no  harassing  restraint,  no  repressing  of 
glee  and  vivacity  with  him  ;  for  with  him  I 
was  at  perfect  ease,  because  I  knew  I  suited 
him  ;  all  I  said  or  did  seemed  cither  to  console 
or  revive  him.  Delightful  consciousness  !  It 
brought  to  life  and  light  my  whole  nature  ;  in 
his  presence  I  thoroughly  lived,  and  he  lived  in 
mine.  Blind  as  he  was,  smiles  played  over  his 
face,  joy  dawned  on  his  forehead ;  his  linea- 
ments softened  and  warmed. 

After  supper,  he  began  to  ask  me  many  ques- 
tions, of  where  I  had  been,  what  I  had  been 
doing,  how  I  had  found  him  out ;  but  I  gave 
him  only  very  partial  replies  ;  it  was  too  late 
to  enter  into  particulars  that  night.  Besides,  I 
wished  to  touch  no  deep-thrilling  chord,  to 
open  no  fresh  well  of  emotion  in  his  heart ;  my 
sole  present  airn  was  to  cheer  him.  Cheered, 
;ib  I  have  said,  he  was,  and  yet  but  by  fits.     I< 


a  moment's  silence  broke  the  conTersatioo, 
he  would  turn  restless,  touch  me,  then  aay, 
"  Jane." 

"You  are  altogether  a  human  being,  Jane? 
You  are  certain  of  that  1" 

"  I  conscientiously  believe  so,  Mr.  Roches- 
ter." 

"  Yet  how,  on  this  dark  and  doleful  evening, 
could  you  so  suddenly  rise  on  my  lone  hearth? 
I  stretched  my  hand  to  take  a  glass  of  water 
from  a  hireling,  and  it  was  given  me  by  you ;  I 
asked  a  question,  expecting  John's  wife  to  an- 
swer me,  and  your  voice  spoke  at  my  ear." 

"  Because  I  had  come  in,  in  Mary's  stead, 
with  the  tray." 

"And  there  is  enchantment  in  the  very  hour 
I  am  now  spending  with  you  Who  can  tell 
what  a  dark,  dreary,  hopeless  life  I  have 
dragged  on  for  months  pasf!  Doing  nothing. 
expecting  nothing ;  merging  night  in  day  ;  feel- 
ing but  the  sensation  of  cold  when  I  let  the  fire 
go  out,  of  hunger  when  I  forgot  to  eat ;  and 
then  a  ceaseless  sorrow,  and,  at  times,  a  very 
delirium  of  desire  to  behold  my  Jane  again. 
Yes,  for  her  restoration  I  longed,  far  more  than 
for  that  of  my  lost  sight.  How  can  it  be,  that 
Jane  is  with  me  and  says  she  loves  me  1  Will 
she  not  depart  as  suddenly  as  she  came  1  To- 
morrow, I  fear,  I  shall  find  her  no  more." 

A  common-place,  practical  reply,  out  of  the 
train  of  his  own  disturbed  ideas,  was,  I  was 
sure,  the  best  and  most  reassuring  for  him  ia 
this  frame  of  mind.  I  passed  my  finger  over 
his  eyebrows,  and  remarked  that  they  were 
scorched,  and  that  I  would  apply  something 
which  should  make  them  grow  as  broad  and 
black  as  ever. 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  doing  me  good  in  any 
way,  beneficent  spirit,  when,  at  some  fatal  mo- 
ment, you  will  again  desert  me,  passing  like  a 
shadow,  whither  and  how,  to  me  unknown  ; 
and  for  me,  remaining  afterward  undiscover- 
abler' 

"  Have  you  a  pocket-comb  about  you,  sirl" 

"What  for,  Jane?" 

"  Just  to  comb  out  this  shaggy  black  mane. 
I  find  you  rather  alarming,  when  I  examine 
you  close  at  hand ;  you  talk  of  my  being  a 
fairy ;  but,  I  am  sure,  you  are  more'  like  a 
brownie." 

"Am  I  hideous,  Jane?" 

"  Very,  sir  ;  you  always  were,  you  know." 

"Humph!  The  wickedness  has  not  been 
taken  out  of  you,  wherever  you  have  sojourn- 
ed." 

"  Yet  I  have  been  with  good  people ;  far  bet- 
ter than  you,  a  hundred  times  better;  people 
possessed  of  ideas  and  views  you  never  enter- 
tained in  your  life  ;  quite  more  refined  and  ex- 
alted." 

"  Who  the  deuce  have  you  been  with  ?" 

"  If  you  twist  in  that  way,  you  will  make  me 
pull  the  hair  out  of  your  head  ;  and  then  I  think 
you  will  cease  to  entertain  doubts  of  my  sub- 
stantiality." 

"  Who  have  you  been  with,  Jane  ?" 

"  You  shall  -not  get  it  out  of  me  to-night,  sir ; 
you  must  wait  till  to-morrow ;  to  leave  my 
tale  half  told,  will,  you  know,  be  a  sort  of  se- 
curity that  I  shall  appear  at  your  breakfast-ta- 
ble to  finish  it.  By  the  by.  I  must  mind  not  to 
rise  on  your  hearth  with  only  a  glass  of  water, 


JANE  EYRE. 


16& 


tben  ',  I  must  bring  an  egg  at  the  lesat,  to  say 
nothing  of  fried  ham." 

"  You  mocking  changeling,  fairy-born  and 
numan-bred  !  You  make  me  feel  as  I  have 
not  felt  these  twelve  months.  If  Saul  could 
have  had  you  for  his  David,  the  evil  spirit 
would  have  been  exorcised  without  the  aid  of 
the  harp." 

"  There,  sir,  you  are  redd  up  and  made  de- 
cent. N»w  I'll  leave  you ;  I  have  been  trav- 
eling these  last  three  days,  and  I  believe  I  am 
tired.     Good-night!" 

"  Just  one  word,  Jane  i  were  there  only  la- 
dies in  the  house  where  you  have  been  V 

I  laughed  and  made  my  escape,  still  laughing 
as  I  ran  up  stairs.  "  A  good  idea  !"  I  thought, 
•with  glee.  "  I  see  I  have  the  means  of  fretting 
him  out  of  his  melancholy  for  some  time  to 
come." 

Very  early  the  next  morning,  I  heard  him  up 
and  astir,  wandering  from  one  room  to  another. 
As  soon  as  Mary  came  down,  I  heard  the  ques- 
tion, "Is  Miss  Eyre  herel"  Then,  "Which 
room  did  you  put  her  into  1  Was  it  dry  ?  Is 
she  up  1  Go  and  ask  if  she  wants  any  thing  ; 
and  when  she  will  come  down." 

I  came  down  as  soon  as  I  thought  there  was 
a  prospect  of  breakfast.  Entering  the  room 
▼ery  softly,  I  had  a  view  of  him  before  he  dis- 
covered my  presence.  It  was  mournful,  in- 
deed, to  witness  the  subjugation  of  that  vigor- 
ous spirit  to  a  corporeal  infirmity.  He  sat  in 
bis  chair,  still,  but  not  at  rest ;  expectant  evi- 
dently ;  the  lines  of  now  habitual  sadness 
marking  his  strong  features.  His  countenance 
reminded  one  of  a  lamp  quenched,  waiting  lo 
be  relighted,  and  alas  !  it  was  not  himself  that 
could  now  kindle  the  luster  of  animated  expres- 
sion ;  he  was  dependent  on  another  for  that  of- 
fice !  I  had  meant  to  be  gay  and  careless,  but 
the  powerlessness  of  the  strong  man  touched 
my  heart  to  the  quick;  still  I  accosted  him 
with  what  vivacity  I  could. 

"It  is  a  bright,  sunny  morning,  sir,"  I  said. 
"  The  rain  is  over  and  gone,  and  there  is  a  ten- 
der shining  after  it;  you  shall  have  a  walk  soon." 

I  had  wakened  the  glow ;  his  features 
beamed. 

"  Oh,  you  are  indeed  there,  my  sky-lark  ! 
Come  to  me.  You  are  not  gone ;  not  van- 
ished 1  I  heard  one  of  your  kind  an  hour  ago, 
singing  high  over  the  wood  ;  but  its  song  had 
DO  music  for  me,  any  more  than  the  rising  sun 
bad  rays.  All  the  melody  on  earth  is  concen- 
trated in  my  Jane's  tongue  to  my  ear  (I  am  glad 
it  is  not  naturally  a  silent  one) ;  all  the  sun- 
shine I  can  feel  is  in  her  presence." 

The  water  stood  in  my  eyes  to  hear  this 
avowal  of  his  dependence  :  just  as  if  a  royal 
eagle,  chained  to  a  perch,  should  be  forced  to 
entreat  a  sparrow  to  become  its  purveyor.  But 
I  would  not  be  lachrymose  ;  I  dashed  off  the 
salt  drops,  and  busied  myself  with  preparing 
breakfast. 

Most  of  the  morning  was  spent  in  the  open 
air.  I  led  him  out  of  the  wet  and  wild  wood, 
into  some  cheerful  fields ;  I  described  to  him 
how  brilliantly  green  they  were  ;  how  the  flow- 
ers and  hedges  looked  refreshed ;  how  spark- 
lingly  blue  was  the  sky.  I  sought  a  seat  for 
him  in  a  hidden  and  lovely  spot — a  dry  stump 
of  a  tree  ;  nor  did  I  refuse  to  let  him,  when 


seated,  place  rae  on  his  knee ;  why  ehoald  I, 
when  both  he  and  I  were  happier  near  than 
apart"!  Pilot  lay  beside  us:  all  was  quiet. 
He  broke  out  suddenly  while  clasping  me  in  his 
arms — 

"  Crqel,  cruel  deserter  !  Oh,  Jane,  what  did 
I  feel  when  I  discovered  you  had  fled  from 
Thornfield,  and  when  I  could  nowhere  find  you; 
and,  after  examining  your  apartment,  ascer- 
tained that  you  had  taken  no  money,  nor  any 
thing  which  could  serve  as  an  equivalent  1  A 
pearl  necklace  I  had  given  you  lay  untouched 
in  its  little  casket ;  your  trunks  were  left  corded ' 
and  locked  as  they  had  been  prepared  for  the 
bridal  tour.  What  could  my  darling  do,  I  asked, 
left  destitute  and  penniless?  And  what  did 
she  do"!     Let  me  hear  now." 

Thus  urged,  I  began  the  narrative  of  my  ex- 
perience for  the  last  year.  I  softened  consid- 
erably what  related  to  tfie  three  days  of  wan- 
dering and  starvation,  because  to  have  told  him 
all  would  have  been  to  inflict  unnecessary  pain  ; 
the  little  I  did  say  lacerated  his  faithful  heart 
deeper  than  I  wished. 

I  should  not  have  left  him  thus,  he  said, 
without  any  means  of  making  my  way ;  I 
should  have  told  him  my  intention.  I  should 
have  confided  in  him ;  he  would  never  have 
forced  me  to  be  his  mistress.  Violent  as  he 
had  seemed  in  his  despair,  he,  in  truth,  loved 
me  far  too  well  and  too  tenderly  to  constitute 
himself  my  tyrant ;  he  would  have  given  me 
half  his  fortune,  without  demanding  so  much 
as  a  kiss  in  return,  rather  than  I  should  have 
flung  myself  friendless  on  the  wide  world.  I 
had  endured,  he  was  certain,  more  than  I  had 
confessed  to  him. 

"  Well,  whatever  my  sufferings  had  been 
they  were  very  short,"  I  answered  ;  and  then  I 
proceeded  to  tell  him  how  I  had  been  receiv- 
ed at  Moor  House,  how  I  had  obtained  the  of- 
fice of  schoolmistress,  &c.  The  accession 
of  fortune,  the  discovery  of  my  relations,  fol- 
followed  in  due  order.  Of  course,  St.  John 
Rivers's  name  came  in  frequently  in  the  prog- 
ress of  my  tale.  When  I  had  done,  that  name 
was  immediately  taken  up. 

"This  St.  John,  then,  is  your  cousin  1" 

"  Yes." 

"  You  have  spoken  of  him  often  ;  did  you  like 
himr' 

"  He  was  a  very  good  man,  sir ;  I  could  not 
help  liking  him." 

"A  good  man"?  Does  that  mean  a  respecta- 
ble, well-conducted  man  of  fifty  ?  Or  what  does 
it  mean  V 

"St.  John  was  only  twenty-nine,  sir." 

"Jcune  encore,"  as  the  French  say.  "Is  he 
a  person  of  low  stature,  phlegmatic,  and  plain? 
A  person  whose  goodness  consists  rather  in  his 
guiltlessness  of  vice,  than. in  his  prowess  in 
virtue  1" 

"  He  is  untiringly  active.  Great  and  exalted 
deeds  are  what  he  lives  to  perform." 

"  But  his  brain  T  That  is  probably  rather  soft? 
He  means  well ;  but  you  shrug  your  shoulders 
to  hear  him  talkl" 

"  He  talks  little,  sir  ;  what  he  does  say  is  ever 
to  the  point.     His  brain  is  first  rate,  I  shoaM 
think  ;  not  impressible,  but  vigorous." 
"  Is  he  an  able  man,  then"!" 
"Truly  able." 


!70 


JANE  EYRE. 


"  A  thoroughly  educated  man  1" 

"St.  John  13  an  accomplisiied  and  profound 
8chi)lar." 

"His  manners,  I  think,  you  said  are  not  to 
your  taste  1  priggish  and  parsonic!" 

"  1  never  mentioned  his  manners  ;  but,  unless 
I  had  a  very  bad  taste,  they  must  suit  it ;  they 
are  polished,  calm,  and  gentlemanlike." 

"  His  appearance — I  forget  what  description 
vou  gave  of  his  appearance ;  a  sort  of  raw^  cu- 
rate, half  strangled  with  his  whjte  neckcloth, 
and  stilted  up  on  his  thick-soled  high-lows, 
eh!" 

"  St.  John  dresses  well.  He  is  a  handsome 
man :  tall,  fair,  with  blue  eyes,  and  a  Grecian 
profile." 

{Aside.)  "Damn  him!"  {To  me.)  "Did 
you  like  him,  Janel" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Rochester,  I  liked  him :  but  you 
asked  me  that  before." 

I  perceived,  of  course,  the  drift  of  my  inter- 
locutor. Jealousy  had  got  hold  of  him  ;  she 
stung  him;  but  the  sting  was  salutary;  it  gave 
him  respite  from  the  gnawing  fang  of  melan- 
choly. I  would  not,  therefore,  immediately 
charm  the  snake. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  not  sit  any  longer 
on  my  knee,  Miss  EyreT'  was  the  next  some- 
what unexpected  observation. 

"  Why  not,  Mr.  Rochester  1"  .  ' 

"The  picture  you  have  just  drawn  is  sug- 
gestive of  a  rather  too  overwiielming  contrast. 
Your  words  have  delineated  very  prettily  a 
graceful  Apollo  ;  he  is  present  to  your  imagi- 
nation— tall,  fair,  blue-eyed,  and  vvitli  a  Gre- 
cian profile.  Your  eyes  dwell  on  a  Vulcan — 
a  real  blacksmith,  brown,  broad-shouldered ; 
and  blind  and  lame  in  the  bargain." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  before  ;  b'jt  you  cer- 
tainly are  ralher  like  Vulcan,  sir." 

"Well-ryou  can  leave  me,  ma'am;  but  be- 
fore you  go  (and  be  retained  nie  by  a  firmer 
grasp  than  ever),  you  will  l)e  pleased  just  to 
answer  me  a  question  or  two."     He  paused. 

"  What  questions.  Mr.  Rochester  1" 

Then  followed  this  cross-e.xamination  : — 

"  St.  John  made  you  schoolmistress  of  Mor- 
ton before  he  knew  you  were  his  cousin  1" 

"Yes." 

"  You  would  often  see  him  1  He  would  visit 
the  school  sometimes  V 

'•  Daily." 

"He  would  approve  of  your  plans,  Janel  I 
know  they  would  be  clever;  for  you  are  a  tal- 
ented creature  V 

"  He  approved  of  them — ^yes." 

"He  would  discover  many  things  in  you  he 
could  not  have  expected  to  find  1  Some  of 
your  accomplishments  are  not  ordinary." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that." 

"  You  had  a  liitle  cottage  near  the  school, 
yon  say ;  did  he  ever  come  there  to  see  youl" 

"Now  and  then." 

"Of  an  evening  1" 

"Once  or  twice." 

A  pause. 

"How  long  did  you  reside  with  him  and  his 
sisters  after  the  cousinsbip  was  discovered  ?" 

"Five  inonllis." 

"  Did  Rivers  spend  much  time  with  the  ladies 
of  his  family  1" 

"Yes;  the  back  parlor  was  both  his  study 


and  ours  ;  ho  sat  near  the  window,  and  we  by 

the  table." 

"  Did  he  study  muchi" 

"A  good  deal." 

"  What?" 

"  Hindostanee." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  meantime !" 

"  I  learned  German,  at  first." 

"  Did  he  teach  you  V' 

"  He  did  not  understand  German." 

"Did  he  teach  you  nothing  1" 

"A  little  Hindostanee." 

"Rivers  taught  you  Hindostanee** 

"Yes,  sir." 
.  "And  his  sisters  also t" 

"No." 

"Only  youl" 

"Only  me." 

"  Did  you  ask  to  learn  t" 

"No." 

"  He  wished  to  teach  you  1" 

"Yes." 

A  second  pause. 

"  Why  did  he  wish  itt  Of  what  use  could 
Hindostanee  be  to  youl" 

"  He  intended  me  to  go  with  him  to  India." 

"  Ah  !  here  I  reach  the  root  of  the  matter. 
He  wanted  you  to  marry  himi" 

"  He  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"  That  is  a  fiction — an  impudent  invention  to 
vex  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  it  is  the  literal  truth  ; 
he  asked  me  more  than  once,  and  was  as  stiff 
about  urging  bis  point  as  ever  you  could  be." 

"Miss  Eyre,  I  repeat  it,  you  can  leave  me. 
How  often  am  I  lo  say  the  same  thing T  Why 
do  you  remain  pertinaciously  perched  on  my 
knee,  when  1  have  given  yon  noiit-e  lo  quitl" 

"  Because  I  airi  comfortable  there." 

"  No,  Jane,  you  are  not  comlorlable  there; 
because  your  heart  is  not  with  me  ;  it  is  with 
this  cousin — this  St.  John.  Oh,  till  this  mo- 
ment, I  thought  niy  little  Jane  was  all  mine! 
I  had  a  belief  she  loved  nie  even  when  she  left 
me  ;  that  was  an  atom  of  sweet  in  much  bitter. 
Eong  as  we  have  been  parted,  hot  tears  as  I 
have  wept  over  our  separation,  I  never  thought 
that  while  I  was  mourning  her,  she  was  loving 
another  !  But  it  is  useless  grieving.  Jane, 
leave  me;  go  and  marry  Rivers." 

"Shake  me  off,  then,  sir — push  me  away; 
for  I'll  not  leave  you  of  my  own  accord." 

"  Jane,  I  ever  like  your  tone  of  voice  ;  it 
still  renews  hope,  it  sounds  so  truthful.  When 
I  hear  it,  it  carries  me  back  a  year.  I  forgot 
that  you  have  formed  a  new  tie.  But  I  am  not 
a  fool — go — " 

"Where  must  I  go,  sirV 

"  Your  own  way — with  the  husband  you  have 
chosen." 

"Who  is  that?" 

"You  know — this  St.  John  Rivers." 

"  He  is  not  my  husband,  nor  ever  will  be.  He 
does  not  love  me  ;  I  do  not  love  him.  He  loves 
(as  he  can  love,  and  that  is  not  as  you  love)  a 
beautiful  young  lady  called  Rosamond.  He 
wanted  to  marry  me  only  because  he  thought  I 
should  make  a  suitable  missionary's  wife,  which 
she  would  not  have  done.  He  is  good  and 
great,  but  severe  ;  and,  for  me,  cold  as  an  ice- 
berg. He  is  not  like  you,  sir;  I  am  not  happy 
at  his  side,  nor  near  him,  nor  with  him.     Ho 


JANE  EYRE. 


171 


^a3  no  indulgence  for  me — no  fondness.  He 
sees  nothing  attractive  in  me  ;  not  even  youth 
— only  a  few  useful  mental  points.  Then,  must 
I  leave  you,  sir,  to  go  to  him  V 

I  shuddered  invohintarily,  and  clung  instinct- 
ively closer  to  my  blind  bur.  beloved  master. 
He  smiled. 

"What,  Jane  !  Is  this  true  1  Is  such  really 
the  state  of  matters  between  you  and  Rivers  1" 

"  Absolutely,  sir.  Oh,  you  need  not  be  jeal- 
ous !  I  wanted  to  tease  you  a  little  to  make 
you  less  sad  ;  I  thought  anger  would  be  better 
than  grief  But  if  you  wish  me  to  love  you, 
could  you  but  see  how  much  I  do  love  you,  you 
would  be  proud  and  content.  All  my  heart  is 
yours,  sir ;  it  belongs  to  you ;  and  with  you  it 
would  remain,  were  fate  to  exile  the  rest  of  me 
from  your  presence  forever." 

Again,  as  he  kissed  me,  painful  thoughts 
darkened  his  aspect. 

"  My  seared  vision  !  My  crippled  strength !" 
he  murmured  regretfully. 

1  caressed  in  order  to  soothe  him.  I  knew 
of  what  he  was  thinking,  and  wanted  to  speak 
for  him,  but  dared  not.  As  he  turned  aside  his 
face  a  minute,  I  saw  a  tear  slide  from  under 
the  sealed  eyelid,  and  trickle  down  the  manly 
cheek.     My  heart  swelled. 

"I  am  no  better  than  the  old,  lightning- 
utruck  chestnut- tree  in  Thornfield  orchard," 
he  remarked,  ere  long.  "  And  what  right 
would  that  ruin  have  to  bid  a  budding  wood- 
bine cover  iis  decay  with  freshness  T' 

"You  are  no  ruin,  sir — no  lightning-struck 
tree  ;  you  are  green  and  vigorous.  Plants  will 
grow  about  your  roots,  whether  you  ask  them 
or  not.  because  they  take  delight  in  your  boun- 
tiful shadow  ;  and  as  they  grow  they  will  leiin 
toward  you,  and  wind  round  you,  because  your 
strength  offers  them  so  safe  a  prop." 

Again  he  smiled  ;  I  gave  him  comfort. 

"You  speak  of  friends,  Jaiiel"  he  asked. 

"Yes  ;  of  friends,"  J  answered,  rather  hesita- 
tingly ;  for  I  knew  I  meant  more  than  friends, 
but  could  not  tell  what  other  word  to  employ. 
He  helped  me. 

"  Ah  I  Jane.     But  I  want  a  wife." 

"Do  you,  sir?" 

"  Yes  ;  is  it  news  to  you  V 

"  Of  course ;  you  said  nothing  about  it  be- 
fore." 

"  Is  it  unwelcome  news  V 

"  That  depends  on  circumstances,  sir — on 
your  choice." 

"  Which  you  shall  make  for  me,  Jane.  1 
will  abide  by  your  decision." 

"  Choose  then,  sir — her  who  loves  you  best." 

••  I  will  at  least  choose — her  I  love  best.  Jane, 
will  you  marry  me  1" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  A  poor  blind  man,  whom  you  will  have  to 
lead  about  by  the  hand  V* 

"Yes,  sir." 

"A  crippled  man,  twenty  years  older  than 
you,  whom  you  will  have  to  wait  on  1" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"Truly,  Jane  V 

"Most  truly,  sir." 

"  Oh  !  my  darling !  God  bless  you  and  re- 
ward you  !" 

"Mr.  Rochester,  if  ever  I  did  a  good  deed  in 
my  life — if  ever  I  thought  a  good  thought— if 


ever  I  prayed  a  sincere  and  blameless  prayer — 
if  ever  I  wished  arighleous  wish,  1  am  reward- 
ed now.  To  be  your  wife  is,  for  me,  to  be  as 
happy  as  I  can  be  on  earth." 

'•Because  you  delight  in  sacrifice." 

"Sacrifice!  What  do  I  sacrifice?  Famine 
for  food,  expectation  for  content.  To  1)6  priv- 
ileged to  put  my  arms  round  what  I  value — to 
press  my  lips  to  what  I  love — to  repose  on 
what  I  trust ;  is  that  to  make  a  sacrifice?  If 
so,  then  certainly  I  delight  in  sacrifice  " 

"  And  to  bear  with  my  infirmities,  Jane  ;  to 
overlook  my  deficiencies." 

"Which  are  none  sir,  to  me.  I  love  you 
better  now,  when  I  can  really  be  useful  to  you, 
than  I  did  in  your  state  of  proud  independence, 
when  you  disdained  every  part  but  that  of  the 
giver  and  protector." 

"  Hitherto  I  have  hated  to  be  helped — to  be 
led  ;  henceforth,  I  feel,  I  shall  hate  it  no  more. 
I  did  not  like  to  put  my  hand  into  a  hireling's, 
but  it  is  pleasant  to  feel  it  circled  by  Jane's  lit- 
tle fingers.  I  preferred  utter  loneliness  to  the 
constant  attendance  of  servants ;  but  Jane's 
soft  ministry  will  be  a  perpetual  joy.  Jane 
suits  me  ;  da  I  suit  her  ?" 

"To  the  finest  fiber  of  my  nature,  sir." 

"  The  case  being  so,  we  have  nothing  in  the 
world  to  wait  for ;  we  must  be  married  in- 
stantly." 

He  looked  and  spoke  with  eagerness ;  his 
old  impetuosity  was  rising. 

"  We  must  become  one  flesh  without  any  de- 
lay, Jane  ;  there  is  but  the  license  to  get — then 
we  marry — " 

"Mr-  Rochester,  I  have  just  discovered  the 
sun  is  far  declined  from  its  meridian,  and  Pilot 
is  actually  gone  home  to  his  dinner.  Let  m* 
look  at  your  watch." 

"Fasten  it  into  your  girdle,  Janet,  and  kec[ 
it  henceforward  ;  1  have  no  use  for  it." 

"It  is  nearly  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon, 
sir.     Don't  yuu  feel  hungry  ?" 

"Tlie  third  day  frr  m  this  must  he  our  wed- 
ding-day, Jane.  N;ver  mind  find  clothes  and 
jewels,  now  ;  all  that  is  not  worth  a  fillip." 

"The  sun  has  dried  up  all  the  rain-drops, 
sir.     The  breeze  is  still ;  it  is  quite  hot." 

"Do  you  know,  Jane,  I  have  your  little  pearl 
necklace  at  this  moment  fiistened  round  my 
bronze  scrag  under  my  cravat?  I  have  worn 
it  since  the  day  I  lost  my  only  treasure  ;  as  a 
memento  of  her." 

"  We  will  go  home  through  the  wood.;  that 
will  be  the  shadiest  way." 

He  pursued  his  own  thoughts  without  heed- 
ing me. 

"Jane!  you  think  mp,  I  dare  say,  an  irre- 
ligious dog ;  but  my  heart  swells  with  gratitude 
to  the  beneficent  God  of  this  earth  just  now. 
He  sees  not  as  man  sees,  but  far  clearer ;  judges 
not  as  man  judges,  but  far  more  wisely.  I 
did  not  wrong  ;  I  would  have  sullied  my  inno- 
cent flower — breathed  guilt  on  its  purity;  the 
Omnipotent  snatched  it  from  me.  I,  in  my 
stifli'-nccked  rebellion,  almost  cursed  the  dis- 
pensation ;  instead  of  bending  to  the  decree,  I 
defied  it.  Divine  justice  pursued  its  course  ; 
disasters  came  thick  upon  me  ;  1  was  forced  t4 
pass  through  the  vailcy  of  the  shadow  of  death. 
His  chastisements  are  mighty  ;  and  one  smota 
me   which  has  humbled    me   forever.      Yon 


172 


JANE  EYRE, 


know  I  was  proud  of  my  strength  ;  but  what  is 
it  now,  when  I  must  give  it  over  to  foreign 
guidance,  as  a  child  does  its  weakness!  Of 
late,  Jane — only  of  late — I  began  to  see  and 
acknowledge  the  hand  of  God  in  my  doom.  I 
began  to  experience  remorse,  repentance  ;  the 
wish  for  reconcilement  to  my  Maker.  I  began 
sometimes  to  prao^ ;  very  brief  prayers  they 
were,  but  very  sincere. 

"  Some  days  since — nay,  I  can  number 
them,  four ;  it  was  last  Monday  night,  a  singu- 
lar mood  came  over  me  ;  one  in  which  grief 
replaced  frenzy ;  sorrow,  sullenness.  I  had 
long  had  the  impression  that  since  I  could  no- 
where find  you,  you  must  be  dead.  Late  that 
night,  perhaps  it  might  be  between  eleven  and 
twelve  o'clock,  ere  I  retired  to  my  dreary  rest, 
I  supplicated  God,  that,  if  it  seemed  good  to 
Him,  I  might  soon  be  taken  from  this  life,  and 
admitted  to  that  world  to  come,  where  there 
was  still  hope  of  rejoining  Jane. 

"  I  was  in  my  own  room,  and  sitting  by  the 
window,  which  was  open ;  it  soothed  me  to 
feel  the  balmy  night  air,  though  I  could  see 
no  stars,  and  only  by  a  vague,  luminous  haze, 
knew  the  presence  of  a  moon.  I  longed  for 
thee,  Janet !  Oh,  I  longed  for  thee  both,  with 
soul  and  flesh  !  I  asked  of  God,  at  once  in 
anguish  and  humility,  if  I  had  not  been  long 
enough  desolate,  afflicted,  tormented,  and 
might  not  soon  taste  bliss  and  peace  once 
more.  That  I  merited  all  I  endured,  I  ac- 
knowledged ;  that  I  could  scarcely  endure 
more,  I  pleaded ;  and  the  alpha  and  omega  of 
my  heart's  wishes  broke  involuntarily  from  my 
lips,  in  the  words,  "  Jane  !  Jane  !  Jane  !" 

"  Did  you  speak  these  words  aloud  1" 

"  I  did,  Jane.  If  any  listener  had  heard  me 
he  would  have  thought  me  mad,  I  pronounced 
them  with  such  frantic  energy." 

"And  it  was  last  Monday  night ;  somewhere 
near  midnight "!" 

"  Yes ;  but  the  time  is  of  no  consequence ; 
what  followed  is  the  strange  point.  You  will 
think  me  superstitious — some  superstition  I 
have  in  my  blood,  and  always  had  ;  neverthe- 
less, this  is  true — true,  at  least,  it  is  that  I 
heard  what  I  now  relate. 

"As  I  exclaimed  'Jane!  Jane!  Jane  I'  a 
^voice — I  can  not  tell  whence  the  voice  came, 
but  I  know  whose  voice  it  was— replied,  '  I  am 
coming;  wait  for  me!'  and  a  moment  after, 
went  whispering  on  the  wind,  the  words, 
•  "Where  are  you  V 

"I'll  tell  you,  if  I  can,  the  idea,  the  picture 
these  words  opened  to  my  mind  :  yet  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  express  what  I  want  to  express. 
Ferndcan  is  buried,  as  you  see,  in  a  heavy 
wood,  where  sound  falls  dull,  and  lies  unrcver- 
berating.  'Where  are  youl'  ^emed  spoken 
among  mountains,  for  I  heard  a  hill-sent  echo 
repeat  the  words.  Cooler  and  fresher  at  the 
moment  the  gale  seemed  to  visit  my  brow ;  I 
could  have  deemed  that  in  some  wild,  lone  scene, 
I  and  Jane  were  meeting.  In  spirit,  I  believe, 
we  must  have  met.  You,  no  doubt,  were,  at 
that  hour,  in  unconscious  sleep,  Jane  ;  perhaps 
your  soul  wandered  from  its  cell  to  comfort 
mine  ;  for  those  were  your  accents — as  certain 
as  I  live— they  were  yours  !" 

Reader,  it  was  on  Monday  night,  near  mid- 
night, that  I,  too,  had  received  Uie  myeterioas 


summons ;  those  were  the  very  words  by 
which  I  had  replied  to  it.  I  listened  to  Mr. 
Rochester's  narrative,  but  made  no  disclosure 
in  return.  The  coincidence  struck  me  as  too 
awful  and  inexplicable  to  be  communicated  or 
discussed.  If  I  told  any  thing,  my  tale  would 
be  such  as  must  necessarily  make  a  profound 
impression  on  the  mind  of  my  hearer ;  and 
that  mind,  yet  from  its  sufferings  too  prone  to 
gloom,  needed  not  the  deeper  shade  of  the  su- 
pernatural. I  kept  these  things,  then,  and 
pondered  them  in  my  heart. 

"  You  can  not  now  wonder,"  continued  my 
master,  "that  when  you  rose  upon  me  so  un- 
expectedly last  night,  I  had  difficulty  in  belicT- 
ing  you  any  other  than  a  mere  voice  and  vi- 
sion ;  something  that  would  melt  to  silence 
and  annihilation,  as  the  midnight  whisper  and 
mountain  echo  had  melted  before.  Now,  I 
thank  God !  I  know  it  to  be  otherwise.  Yes,  I 
thank  God !" 

He  put  me  off  his  knee,  rose,  and  reverently 
lifting  his  hat  from  his  brow,  and  bending  his 
sightless  eyes  to  the  earth,  he  stood  in  mute 
devotion.  Only  the  last  words  of  the  worship 
were  audible. 

"  I  thank  my  Maker,  that  in  the  midst  of 
judgment  he  has  remembered  mercy.  I  hum- 
bly entreat  my  Redeemer  to  give  me  strength 
to  lead  henceforth  a  purer  life  than  I  have  done 
hitherto  !" 

Then  he  stretched  his  hand  out  to  be  led.  I 
took  that  dear  hand,  held  it  a  moment  to  my 
lips,  then  let  it  pass  round  my  shoulder ;  being 
so  much  lower  of  stature  than  he,  I  served 
both  for  his  prop  and  guide.  We  entered  the 
wood,  and  wended  homeward 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 


CONCLUSION. 


Reader,  I  married  him.  A  quiet  wedding 
we  had  ;  he  and  I,  the  parson  and  clerk,  were 
alone  present.  When  we  got  back  from  church, 
I  went  into  the  kitchen  of  the  manor-house, 
where  Mary  was  cooking  the  dinner,  and  John 
cleaning  the  knives,  and  J  said  : 

"  Mary,  I  have  been  married  to  Mr.  Roches- 
ter this  morning."  The  housekeeper  and  her 
husband  were  both  of  that  decent  phlegmatic 
order  of  people,  to  whom  one  may  at  any  time 
safely  communicate  a  rcmarkabh;  piece  of 
news  without  incurring  the  danger  of  having 
one's  ears  pierced  by  some  shrill  ejaculation, 
and  subsequently  stunned  by  a  torrent  of  wordy 
wonderment.  Mary  did  look  up,  and  she  did 
stare  at  me  ;  the  ladle  with  which  she  was 
hasting  a  pair  of  chickens  roasting  at  the  fire, 
did  for  some  three  minutes  hang  suspended  in 
air ;  and  for  the  same  space  of  time  John's 
knives  also  had  rest  from  the  polishing  process  ; 
but  Mary,  bending  again  over  the  roast,  said 
only, 

"  Have  you,  miss  1     Well,  for  sure .'" 

A  short  time  after  she  pursued  ;  "  I  aeed  you 
go  out  with  the  master,  but  I  didn't  know  you 
were  gone  to  church  to  be  wed  ;"  and  she  bast- 
ed away.  John,  when  I  turned  to  him,  was 
grinning  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  I  telled  Mary  how  it  would  be,"  he  said ; 


JANE  EYRE. 


173 


"  I  knew  what  Mr.  Edward"  (John  Was  an  old 
aervant.  and  had  known  his  master  when  he 
was  the  cadet  of  the  house,  therefore  he  often 
gave  him  his  Christian  name) ; — "  I  knew  what 
Mr.  Edward  would  do,  and  I  was  certain  he 
■would  not  wait  long  neither ;  and  he's  done 
right,  for  aught  I  know.  I  wish  you  joy,  miss !" 
and  he  politely  pulled  his  fore  lock. 

"  Thank  you,  John.  Mr.  Rochester  told  me 
■to  give  you  and  Mary  this."  I  put  into  his 
hand  a  five-pound  note.  Without  waiting  to  hear 
more,  I  left  the  kitchen.  In  passing  the  door  of 
that  sanctum  some  time  after,  I  caught  the 
words, 

"  She'll  happen  do  better  for  him  nor  ony 
o'  t'  grand  ladies."  And  again,  "  If  she  be  n't 
one  o'  th'  handsomest,  she's  noan  faal  and  varry 
good-natured  ;  and  i'  his  een  she's  fair  beauti- 
ifuJ,  ony  body  may  see  that." 

I  wrote  to  Moor  House  and  to  Cambridge 
immediately,  to  say  what  I  had  done ;  fully  ex- 
plaining also  why  I  had  thus  acted.  Diana 
and  Mary  approved  the  step  unreservedly. 
Diana  announced  that  she  would  just  give  me 
time  to  get  over  the  honey-moon,  and  then  she 
would  come  and  see  me. 

"  She  had  better  not  wait  till  then,  Jane," 
said  Mr,  Rochester,  when  I  read  her  letter  to 
him  ;  "  if  she  does,  she  will  be  too  late,  for  our 
honey-moon  will  shine  our  life-long;  its  beams 
will  only  fade  over  your  grave  or  mine." 

How  St.  John  received  the  news  I  don't 
know  ;  he  never  answered  the  letter  in  which 
I  communicated  it ;  yet  six  months  after,  he 
wrote  to  me,  without,  however,  mentioning 
Mr.  Rochester's  name,  or  alluding  to  my  mar- 
riage. His  letter  was  then  calm  ;  and,  though 
Tery  serious,  kind.  He  has  maintained  a  reg- 
ular, though  not  frequent  correspondence  ever 
since ;  he  hopes  I  am  happy,  and  trusts  I  am 
not  of  those  who  live  without  God  in  the  world, 
.and  only  mind  earthly  things. 

You  have  not  quite  forgotten  little  Adele, 
"have  you,  reader?  I  had  not;  I  soon  asked 
^nd  obtained  leave  of  Mr.  Rochester  to  go  and 
■eee  her  at  the  school  where  he  had  placed  her. 
Her  frantic  joy  at  beholding  me  again  moved 
me  much.  She  looked  pale  and  thin  ;  she  said 
she  was  not  happy.  I  found  the  rules  of  the 
establishment  were  too  strict,  its  course  of 
study  too  severe,  for  a  child  of  her  age ;  I  took 
her  home  with  me.  I  meant  to  become  her 
.governess  once  more  ;  but  I  soon  found  this 
impracticable  ;  my  time  and  cares  were  now 
jeqaired  by  another— my  husband  needed  them 
-all.  So  I  sought  out  a  school  conducted  on  a 
more  indulgent  system;  and  near  enough  to 
permit  of  my  visiting  her  often,  and  bringing 
her  home  sometimes.  I  took  care  she  should 
never  want  for  any  thing  that  could  contribute 
to  her  comfort ;  she  soon  settled  in  her  new 
abode,  became  very  happy  there,  and  made  fair 
progress  in  her  studies.  As  she  grew  up,  a 
sound,  English  education  corrected  in  a  great 
measure  her  French  defects  ;  and  when  she 
left  school,  I  found  in  her  a  pleasing  and  oblig- 
ing  companion:  docile,  good-tempered  and 
well-principled.  By  her  grateful  attention  to 
me  and  mine,  she  has  long  since  well  repaid 
any  little  kindness  I  ever  had  it  in  my  power 
to  offer  her. 

My  tale  draws  to  its  close:  one  word  re- 


specting my  experience  of  married  life,  and 
one  brief  glance  at  the  fortunes  of  those  whose 
names  have  most  frequently  recurred  in  this 
narrative,  and  I  have  done. 

I  have  now  been  married  ten  years.  I  know 
what  it  is  to  live  entirely  for  and  with  what  I 
love  best  on  earth.  I  hold  myself  supremely 
blessed — blessed  beyond  what  language  can  ex- 
press ;  because  I  am  my  husband's  life  as  fully  as 
he  is  mine.  No  woman  was  ever  nearer  to  her 
mate  than  I  am  ;  ever  more  absolutely  bone  of 
his  bone,  and  flesh  of  his  flesh.  I  know  no 
weariness  of  my  Edward's  society  ;  he  knows 
none  of  mine,  any  more  than  we  each  do  of 
the  pulsation  of  the  heart  that  beats  in  our  sep- 
arate bosoms ;  consequently,  we  are  ever  to- 
gether. To  be  together  is  for  us  to  be  at  once 
as  free  as  in  solitude,  as  gay  as  in  company. 
We  talk,  I  believe,  all  day  long  :  to  talk  to  each 
other  is  but  a  more  animated  and  an  audible 
thinking.  All  my  confidence  is  bestowed  on 
him  ;  all  his  confidence  is  devoted  to  me  ;  we 
are  precisely  suited  in  character ;  perfect  con- 
cord is  the  result. 

Mr.  Rochester  continued  blind  the  first  two 
years  of  our  union  :  perhaps  it  was  that  cir- 
cumstance that  drew  us  so  very  near — that  knit 
us  so  very  close ;  for  I  was  then  his  vision,  as 
I  am  still  his  right  hand.  Literally,  I  was 
(what  he  often  called  me)  the  apple  of  his  eye. 
He  saw  nature — he  saw  books  through  me; 
and  never  did  I  weary  of  gazing  for  his  behalf, 
and  of  putting  into  words  the  effect  of  field, 
tree,  town,  river,  cloud,  sunbeam— of  the  land- 
scape before  us;  of  the  weather  around  us — 
and  impressing  by  sound  on  his  ear  what  light 
could  no  longer  stamp  on  his  eye.  Never  did  I 
weary  of  reading  to  him ;  never  did  I  weary  con- 
ducting him  where  he  wished  to  go ;  of  doing 
for  him  what  he  wished  to  be  done.  And  there 
was  a  pleasure  in  my  services,  most  full,  most 
exquisite,  even  though  sad — because  he  claimed 
these  services  without  painful  shame  or  damp- 
ing humiliation.  He  loved  me  so  truly,  that  ho 
knew  no  reluctance  in  profiting  by  my  attend- 
ance ;  he  felt  I  loved  him  so  fondly,  that  to  yield 
that  attendance  was  to  indulge  my  sweetest 
wishes. 

One  morning  at  the  end  of  the  two  years,  as 
I  was  writing  a  letter  to  his  dictation,  he  came 
and  bent  over  me,  and  said,  "Jane,  have  you 
a  glittering  ornament  round  your  neck?" 

I  had  a  gold  watch-chain :  I  answered, 
"Yes." 

"  And  have  you  a  pale  blue  dress  on  V' 

I  had.  He  informed  me  then,  that  for  some 
time  he  had  fancied  the  obscurity  clouding  one 
eye  was  becoming  less  dense ;  and  that  now 
he  was  sure  of  it. 

He  and  I  went  up  to  London.  He  had  the 
advice  of  an  eminent  oculist ;  and  he  eventu- 
ally recovered  the  sight  of  that  one  eye.  He 
can  not  see  very  distinctly ;  he  can  not  read  or 
write  much  :  but  he  can  find  his  way  without 
being  led  by  the  hand ;  the  sky  is  no  longer  a 
blank  to  him — the  earth  no  longer  a  void. 
When  his  first-born  was  put  into  his  arms,  he 
could  see  that  the  boy  had  inherited  his  own 
eyes,  as  they  once  were — large,  brilliant,  and 
black.  On  that  occasion,  he  again,  with  a  full 
heart,  acknowledged  that  God  had  tempered 
judgment  with  mercy. 


174 


JANE  EYRE. 


My  Edward  and  I,  then,  are  happy :  and  the 
more  so,  lieonuse  iliosc  we  most  love  are  happy 
likewise.  Diana  and  Mary  Rivers  are  holli 
married :  allernaU;Iy,  once  every  year,  lliey 
come  to  see  us,  anil  we  go  to  see  Ihem.  Di- 
nna's  husband  is  a  captain  in  the  navy  ;  a  gal- 
lant officer,  and  a  good  man.  Mary's  is  a 
clergyman;  a  college  friend  of  her  hroiher's; 
and,  from  his  attainments  and  principles,  wor- 
thy of  the  connection.  Bolh  Captain  Fiiz- 
james  and  Mr.  Wharton  love  their  wives,  and 
are  loved  by  them. 

As  to  St.  John  Rivers,  he  left  England :  he 
went  to  India.  He  entered  on  the  path  he  had 
marked  for  himself;  he  pursues  it  slill.  A 
more  resolute,  indefatigable  pioneer  never 
wrought  amid  rocks  and  dangers.  Firm,  faith- 
ful, and  devoted  ;  full  of  energy  and  zeal,  and 
truth,  he  labors  for  his  race;  he  clears  their 
painful  way  to  improvement ;  he  hews  down 
like  a  giant  the  prejudices  of  creed  and  caste 
that  encumber  it.  He  may  be  stern  ;  he  may 
be  exacting;  he  may  he  ambitious  yet;  but 
his  is  the  sternness  of  the  warrior.  Great- 
heart,  who  guards  his  pilgrim-convoy  from  the 
onslauglit  of  Apollyon.  His  is  the  exaction  of 
the  aixisile  who  speaks  hut  for  Christ,  when  he 
Bays — "Whosoever  will  come  after  me,  let 


him  deny  hiihseir,  and  take  up  his  cross  and 
follow  me."  His  is  the  ambition  of  the  hioh 
master-spirit,  which  aims  to  fill  a  place  in  tha 
(irst  rank  of  those  who  are  redeemed  from  the 
earth — who  stand  without  fault  before  the 
throne  <tf  God  ;  who  share  the  last  mighty  vic- 
tories <if  the  lamb  ;  who  are  called,  and  chosen, 
and  faithful. 

St.  John  is  unmarried  :  he  never  will  marry 
now.  Himself  has  hitherto  sufficed  to  the 
toil;  and  the  toil  draws  near  its  close;  his 
glorious  sun  hastens  to  its  setting.  The  last 
letter  I  received  from  him  drew  from  my  eyes 
human  tears,  and  yet  filled  my  heart  with  di- 
vine joy  ;  he  anticipated  his  sure  reward,  his 
incorruptible  crown.  I  Know  that  a  stranger's 
hand  will  write  to  me  next,  to  say  that  the 
good  and  faithful  servant  has  been  called  at 
length  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord.  And  why 
weep  for  this?  No  fear  of  death  will  darken 
St.  John's  last  hour:  his  mind  will  be  uncloud- 
ed ;  his  heart  will  be  undaunted  ;  his  hope  will 
be  sure ;  his  faith  steadfast.  His  own  words 
are  a  pledge  of  this  : 

"  My  Master,"  I.e  says,  "has  forewarned  me. 
Daily  he  announces  more  distinctly — •S'jrely 
I  come  quickly :'  and  hourly  I  more  eagerly 
respond—'  Amen ;  even  so  come,  I.ord  Jesu-s^"* 


CPUB   END 


/iAJ^  ^-^-^JS^ 


WEBSTER'S  OCTAVO  DICTIONARY,  REVISED, 

EMBRACING  ALL  THE  WORDS  IN   THE  QUARTO    EDITION,  AND    ALSO  AN 
ARRANGEMENT  OF  SYNONYMS   UNDER  THELEADING  WORDS. 

HAIEIPIIIS  &  Ig]Ii(D)S'TFi:EISO,  ITEW  'S'OmiE, 

HAVE  RECBNTLV  PUBLISHED, 

In  one  handsome  Volume,  of  nearly  fourteen  hundred  pages,  Sheep  extra.  Price  $3  50, 

SDr.  iDcbstcr's  American  mictionarg 

OF  THE  ENGLISH  LANGUAGE, 

BIHIDITIN'O    THE    ORIGIN,    ORTHOGRAPHY,    PRONUNCIATION,    AND    DEFINITION    OF    WORDS,    ET<k 

THOROUGULY  REVISED  AND  CONSIDERABLY  ENLARGED, 
33s  3i)rof.  (Jttjauncei}  Si.  CfoobrfcJ), 

OF  YALE   COLLEQE. 

ASSISTED    BY    A    NUMBER    OF    GENTLEMEN     DISTINGUISHED    FOR     THEIR    HIGH    ATTAINMENTS    IN    TUB 
VARIOUS  DEPARTMENTS    OF    LEARNING,    WHOSE    NAMES    WILL    BE    FOUND   IN   THE   PREFACE. 

The  entire  work  has  been  re-stereotyped,  and  is  now  beautifully  printed  upon  a  new  set  of  plates. 

Several  thousand  additional  words  have  been  incorporated  in  this  edition,  embracing  uti  the 
terms  given  in  the  recent  edition  ?n  the  (/uarto  form. 

The  Si/nopsis  and  Walker's  Key  to  tlie  classical  pronunciation  of  Greek,  Latin,  and  Scripture 
proper  names  have  been  revised  with  much  care  and  greatly  improved. 

A  complete  Vocabulary,  giving  the  pronunciation  of  modern  Geographical  names,  has  been 
added  to  this  edition. 

Great  attention  has  been  given  in  the  revision  to  the  pronimeiation.  A  large  number  of  words 
having  been  respelied,  it  will  now  be  found  to  be  a  complete  Pronouiicing  Dictionary. 

This  edition  has  been  made  a  Sy7ionymous  Dictionary:  a  new  and  very  important  feature,  not 
to  be  found  incorporated  in  the  same  form  into  any  similar  work. 

Tlie  uimo.st  care  has  been  given  in  every  department  of  the  work  to  render  it  the  most  per* 
feet  and  satisfactory  ever  offered  to  the  public.  Considering  its  comprehensiveness,  its  numer- 
ous essential  improvements,  and  its  general  utility,  it  will  be  found  one  of  the  most  indispeusa 
ble  and  cheapest  books  of  the  times. 

For  a  more  particular  statement  of  the  principles  on  which  the  revision  has  been  conducted 
reference  is  made  to  the  preface  of  the  work. 

'  EXTRACTS   FROM  CRITICAL   NOTICES. 


Th<!  most  cnmplcte  nnd  Ihoroujh  manuni  of  our  l.inguagfi 
yet  offend  to  the  |.ulilic.  The  work,  as  originally  prcjiared 
by  l)r.  Wehster,  was  a  inonamenl  i>(  learniiis  am!  aliilily 
which  hus  won  for  Inn  the  most  dislinguislicd  reputation. 
Since  hisdeatli  it  hiis  licen  .siilijected  to  the  constant,  pro- 
tracted, and  earnest  laliors  of  a  niiniiier  of  scieiititic  and  lit- 
erary getilleineii,  who  )iave  carefully  revised  every  part  of 
it,  corrected  all  errors,  added  many  liiousands  of  words,  en- 
larged and  made  nioic  copious  I'S  well  as  more  accurate  the 
dcttniCioiis,  iiitiwliiccd  throughout  si/iioni/ms  to  the  words, 
and  in  every  possiMe  way  increased  its  value  and  its  utility. 
The  riwull  of  their  hihors  h.is  lieen  the  production  of  an  En- 
glish lexicon,  which  can  not  fall  to  conic  into  universal  use, 
not  only  m  all  schools  and  academies,  hut  wiih  every  prac- 
tical person  and  general  reader. —  lAterary  World. 

No  one  ever  lahured  more  assiduously  and  suiccssfully 
in  throwing  a  strong  and  steady  light  upon  the  English  lan- 
guage than  Ur.  Webster,  liesides,  he  h.is  done  more  to- 
ward extending  the  vocalmlary  of  our  language,  and  giving 
it  a  IVIIness  of  detinilioii  connnensiirate  with  the  ]irogiess  of 
the  language  as  written  and  spiAcii,  than  any  u'.her  lexicog- 
rapher.—  Tcacher^s  Atlvvcale. 

Every  part  of  the  work  has  lieen  suhmitted  to  the  most 
nnreliil  scrutiny.  The  orthography,  derivaluni,  and  pro- 
nunciation of  all  the  words  have  lieen  closely  examined  and 
c<trrected.  The  Oefiiiitions  have  been  eniarged,  made  more 
precise  and  accurate,  am'  perfected  m  evi'iy  way,  liy  the 
careful  coiisiillation  of  encycIopedMS,  and  the  lahor  of  sev- 
eral emiiK'iit  scholars.  However  some  may  diller  concern- 
ing a  lew  of  Ur.  Webster's  general  principles,  it  must  be 
conceded  on  all  sides  that  we  have  here  one  of  the  niosl 
compact,  comprehensive,  and  uselul  lexii'ons  now  bebire  the 
public.  It  IS,  in  fact,  uii  aiiiosl  ludisjiensablc  work. — .Vtio- 
ark  Ai'—'rtis(r. 

A  goiHl  English  dictionary  is  an  im'ispensablc  book  for 
every  profession.  This  edition  of  Webstbr  is  all  that  could 
be  desired.  EiyrmdogicaMy,  it  is  superior  to  any  that  has 
preceded  it,  and  i.s,  in  tins  ileparliniMit  of  lexicographic  la- 
bor, a  uiouume.it  of  learning  and  research.  Professor  CoihI- 
ri'-'i  !)a=  given  a  tiioroi;i>h  revision  ui  the  work,  together 
With  much  additKHial  and  no  Iris  valuublo  Uifuruialluu. — 
1^*11  York  Vornmoeta'  Advertiser. 


The  work,  in  its  present  form,  is  iindnuhtedly  tTio  hesi 
English  dictionary  ever  piiblndied.  It  •»  complete  in  ali 
its  |iarts,  and  in  every  possibln  way  the  woik  has  beea 
adapted  to  the  wants  of  the  great  body  of  the  |>eojile.  It 
will  tiiid  its  way  not  only  into  all  tlie  schools  and  acade- 
mies of  the  country,  but  to  the  desk  of  every  student  autl 
the  fireside  of  every  'aniily. — .Minor. 

The  whole  work  has  been  thoroughly  revised  Ijy  Prof. 
Goodrich,  of  Yale  College,  and  several  iin|ioriaiil  and  most 
valuable  improvements  introduced,  which  will  give  to  tliia 
edition  a  pre-eminent  advantage  over  any  that  has  bcoo 
previously  published. — i)hsrrvcr. 

It  appears  under  new  editorial  auspices,  and  shows  noma 
marked  changes  that  will  add  greatly  to  :ts  value,  and  placo 
It  foremost  among  all  works  of  the  kind  among  iig.  (.'onsid- 
eriiig  Its  beautiful  typography,  its  Iwoad  ami  rational  priu- 
ciples,  its  singularly  cdearand  accurate  ilefmitions,  its  cuni- 
preliensivencss  and  adaptedn,  ss  to  the  wants  of  Kcholars  iiinl 
people,  we  can  safely  say  that,  for  a  dictionary  for  cominott 
use.  It  has  no  superior — in  our  judgment  no  eiinal.-  £°van- 
gclist. 

This  is  lieyonJ  all  doubt  the  most  complete  and  perfect 
edition  of  Webster's  well-known  dictionary  tbat  has  ever 
been  published.  It  can  not  fail  to  tiinl  access  to  raery  li- 
brary, into  every  school,  ami  into  every  fainilv.  We  poiii 
mend  it  most  heartily  to  the  attention  and  favor  ut  ui»' 
readers. — Sun. 

The  best  English  dictionary  extant.     Manv  of  tlin  orig 
inal  errors  of   Ur.  Werster  have  been  correlated,    wh'la  X- 
few  only  of  his  corre<tioiis  of  ilie  old  defective  ■>rtho^raph^ 
hav'e  been  abandoned,  an  I  the  wurk,ou  the  whole,  is  Iwtter 
than  he  lell  it. —  Tihrune 

Tiie  labors  of  Prolessoi  Goodrich  have  materially  adiW 
t)  the  value  of  I  his  dicti  lary.  He  has  been  engaged  i -. 
il-.eni  for  three  years  past  kiiiI  the  application  of  his  rriitf 
p'l  lolui^ical  laciilties  to  th  task  bus  not  been  without  lua 
ample  fruit. — .Vcio   York  t    ruin^'  I'ost. 

It  must  lie  the  slandard  Knglisii  tlictinnary  throui'hniit 
this  Country.  It  conforms  iiion-  nearly  than  any  oiber  to  lh( 
usage  ot  the  best  aillhurs,  and  is  hi  eveiv  respect  the  best 
work  of  Us  kiinl,  lor  general  use,  now  before  the  putdic 
W«  cuiuiiieud  It  to  the  notice  of  our  readers. — .V.  V.  '.'uuntr. 

October,  1847. 


^ 


'7^  - 


a-^^    f^^'^ 


{,  f\^ 


r  H^x  T/ 


I|arpef0  Nod  Catalogue. 


K^  NEW  Descbiptivs  Catalogob  op  Harper  &  Brothers'  Poblioatioks  ia  now  ready  for  dis 
ffibution,  and  may  be  obtained  gratuitously  on  application  to  the  Publishers  personally,  or  by  let- 
ter, post-paid. 

The  attention  of  gentlemen,  in  town  or  country,  designing  to  form  Libraries  or  enrich  their  lit- 
erary collections,  is  respectfully  invited  to  this  Catalogue,  which  will  be  found  to  comprise  a  largo 
proportion  of  the  standard  and  most  esteemed  works  in  English  Literature — compreuendino 
/BocT  TWO  THOUSAND  VOLUMES — which  are  offered  in  most  instances  at  less  than  one  half  the 
eost  of  similar  productions  in  England. 

To  Librarians  and  others  connected  with  Colleges,  Schools,  etc.,  who  may  not  have  access 
to  a  reliable  guide  in  forming  the  true  estimate  of  literary  productions,  it  is  believed  the  present 
Catalogue  will  prove  especially  valuable  as  a  manual  of  reference. 

To  prevent  disappointment,  it  is  suggested  that,  whenever  books  can  not  be  obtained  through 
pjiy  bookseller  or  local  agent,  applications  with  remittance  should  be  addressed  direct  to  the  Pub- 
M&hers,  whicfc  will  be  promptly  attended  to. 

83  Cliff  Street,  New  Yorit,  Sn  ,  «W7 


?Dr.  €l)almcv0'  |3ostl)amou0  iDorks, 


IN   COURSE    OF    PUBLICATION   BY 


Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  New  YorST^  — 

PRINTED    IN   ELEGANT    STYLE,    UNIFORMLY    WITH    THE    ENGLISH    EDITION. 


DAILY  SCRIPTURE  READINGS; 

OR,  mVLM  BIBLICi!  QUOTIDIANJl. 

VOL.   I;,   FORMING    THE    COMMENCEMENT    OF    THE    POSTHUMOUS    WORKS    OF 

THOMAS  CHALMERS,  D.D.,  ILD, 

Price  One  Dollar. 

These  volumes  are  far  more  numerous  and  valuable  than  was  expected,  and  will  constitute  a 
rich  and  most  admirable  legacy  of  that  gifted  mind  to  the  Church.  The  whole  series  will  occupy 
ibout  nine  royal  12mo  volumes. 

The  first  of  the  series  is  entitled  "  Hor^s;  Biblic*  Quotidian.«i;  or,  Daily  Scripture  Read- 
NGs."  These  were  commenced  by  the  author  about  six  years  ago,  and  were  continued  until 
he  time  of  his  death.  A  portion  6f^the  Bible  was  read  every  day,  and  the  reflections  which  it 
uggested  were  immediately  written  in  a  few  brief  paragraphs.  They  comprise  his  first  and 
cadiest  thoughts  upon  each  verse.  These  "  Readings"  commence  with  Genesis  and  extend 
0  Jerowiah.     This  work  will  extend  to  three  volumes. 

The  second  work  of  the  series  is  entitled  "Hor.«:  Biblic.^  SABBATiCiE;  or,  Sabbath  Medita- 
tions ON  THE  Holy  Scriptures."  Two  chapters  in  the  Bible  were  read  each  Sabbath  by  Dr. 
Chalmers,  one  in  the  Old  and  the  other  in  the  New  Testament,  and  those  trains  of  meditative 
bought,  passing  frequently  into  ejaculatory  prayer,  which  the  reading  of  each  chapter  suggested, 
vere  committed  to  writing.  The  work  is  mainly,  though  not  exclusively,  devotional.  It  begins 
vith  Genesis  and  continues  to  the  second  book  of  Kings,  and  embraces  the  whole  of  the  New 
['estament.     It  has  been  the  labor  of  a  great  number  of  years. 

The  third  is  called  "Theological  Institutes."  This  will  be  a  complete  and  comprehensive 
reatise  on  systematic  divinity.  This  is  looked  forward  to  as  his  largest  and  most  matured  con- 
ribution  to  the  science  of  Theology.  It  is  left  nearly  in  the  state  in  which  the  author  designed 
0  present  it  to  the  public,  and  it  will  therefore  be  regarded  as  a  most  important  and  valuable  ad- 
lition  to  the  theological  literature  of  the  age. 

The  fourth  is  Dr.  Chalmers' "Lectures  on  Butler's  Analogy."  The  fifth  will  be  entitled 
'  Discourses."  This  will  embrace  one  volume  of  hitherto  unpublished  sermons,  beginning  with 
me  of  Dr.  Chalmers'  earliest  compositions  for  the  pulpit,  and  giving  a  series  of  others,  composed 
it  different  successive  periods  in  the  course  of  his  ministry.  A  Life  ok  Dr.  Chalmers,  by  his 
on-in-law,  Dr.  Hanna,  editor  of  the  "  North  British  Review,"  is  also  to  be  published. 


He  possessed  in  highest  measure  that  divinest  faculty 
f  spirit,  the  power  of  creating  its  own  world.  He  took  his 
ype  of  Christianity  from  its  Divine  Original.  *  *  *  Kin 
srvid  imajination  was  not  like  Jeremy  Taylor's,  nor  Pos- 
er's, nor  Cowper's,  nor  was  it  the  imagination  nf  his  dear 
ompanion,  Edward  Irving :  more  zeal  than  the  first — niure 
appy  than  the  second — more  lordly  than  the  third— more 
modern  and  more  lightsome  than  the  last:  -t  was  massy  in 
iB  proportions  and  stately  in  its  ornaments— the  lofty  dwell- 


ing of  a  princely  mind— and  into  this  imagination  its  happf 
owner  took  the  Gospel  and  enshrined  and  enthroned  it :  that 
Gospel  was  soon  the  better  genius  of  the  place.  *  *  *  Hi* 
writings  are  alt  gold  and  silver  and  precious  stones — a  mag- 
azine of  generous  thoughts  for  the  elevation,  and  genial 
thoughts  for  the  comfort,  of  mankind.  It  will  take  tho 
Church  a  generation  to  learn  all  he  has  taught  it ;  and  th» 
world  a  century  to  reach  that  point  from  which  he  wa» 
translated. — North  British  Rtview. 


Recently  Published, 
embellished    by    numerous    fine    engravings.      MUSLIN   GILT,   PRICE    $1    25. 

AN    EXPLORATORY    VISIT 


TO    EACH    OF   THE 


CONSULAR  CITIES  OF  CHINA, 

AND  TO  THE  ISLANDS  OF  HONG  KONG  AND  CHUSAN, 

m  3aeb.  CKeorgc  Smitjft,  MM, 


A  work  as  instructive  as  it  is  entertaining :  we  have  met 
fith  none  that  has  given  us  so  full  an  insight  into  the  indi- 
idual  character  i>f  the  Chinese  ;  that  has  made  us  so  famil- 
»r  with  the  thinkings  and  habits  of  an  ordinary  intelligent 
Chinese.  There  are  in  its  pages  a  willingness  to  acknnwl- 
dge  and  respect  whatever  is  estimable,  and  a  pleasant  vein 
f  narrative,  which  make  the  Chinese  city  and  its  popula- 
iun  almost  as  familiar  to  us  as  some  portions  of  our  own 


land.  It  is,  moreover,  a  seasonable  book,  now  that  the  at- 
tention of  religious  men  is  so  earnestly  directed  tu  China.— 
Commercial  Advertiser. 

This  work  is  written  in  a  graceful,  flowing  style,  in  an 
amiable  spirit,  and  indicates  an  unusual  facility  in  the  mat- 
ter of  describing  scenes  and  events.  It  reveals  a  large  fund 
of  interesting  and  valuable  information. — iVetv  York  Re- 
corder. 


/ 


I, 


Superb  ®ift  B00k0,  3uDmile0,  ttr.,  for  ISSS. 


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Thomson's  Seasons,  Illustrated 

With  Seventy-seven  exquisite  Designs  by  the 
Etching  Club.  Morocco  gilt,  $4  00 ;  Muslin 
gilt,  82  75. 

ThU  is  a  rare  book:  it  is  all  beauty— poem,  print,  illus- 
trations, and  binding.  We  heartily  commend  this  edition  of 
tiie  "  Seasons"  to  the  favor  of  the  refined  and  virtuous  in 
makinp  their  purchases  for  the  approaching  holidays.— JVew 
York  Tribune. 

Goldsmith's  Poems,  Illustrated 

With  numerous  exquisite  Designs  by  the  Etch- 
ing Club.    Morocco  gilt,  $3  75 ;  Muslin  gilt, 

?2  50. 

Beauty  in  de.sign  and  refinement  of  the  art  of  engraving 
conjoin,  in  these  long-familiar  and  ever-welcome  pages,  to 
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ent we  would  choose,  first  of  all  competitors,  for  the  cue  we 
most  respected  and  loved. — Ainsworth's  Magazine. 

Milton's  Poetical  Works,  Illustrated 

With  120  Engravings,  from  Draw^ings  by  Har- 
vey. 2  vols.  8vo,  Morocco  gilt,  and  Muslin. 
"  The  humblest  thought,  subjected  to  the  alchemy  of  Mil- 
ton's genius,  became  transmuted  into  something  precious 
and  costly.  He  was  an  enchanter  who  changed  all  the 
earthen  edifices  of  the  imagination  into  pure  gold." 

Pictorial  Book  of  Common  Prayer. 

Richly  Embellished  by  several  Hundred  En- 
gravings.   Morocco,  extra  gilt.    $6  00. 

The  high  testimonials  which  hare  been  bestowed  upon 
this  truly  beautiful  and  national  edition  of  the  Common 
Prayer,  render  it  superfluous  to  say  more  than  th.at  it  is  wor- 
thy to  rank  in  com]>anionship  with  the  superb  edition  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures. — Mirror. 

The  Fairy  Book,  Illustrated 

With  81  Engravings  by  Adams.  Muslin  gilt. 
75  cents. 

This  work  has  long  been  regarded  as  a  gem  among  ju- 
venile books;  the  new  edition  is  on  fine  paper  and  hand- 
somely bound.  It  contains  twelve  new  stories  translated 
expressly  for  this  work;  also  a  beautifully  written  original 
introduction. — Albiim. 

Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Illus- 
trated 

With  50  fine  Engravings  by  Adams.  With  a 
Life  of  the  Author  by  Southey.  Muslin  gilt, 
75  cents ;  Paper,  50  cents. 

A  household  book  wherever  the  English  language  is 
known. — Biblical  Repository. 

The  Flowers  of  Fable. 

From  the  best  Authors,  Ancient  and  Modern. 
Illustrated  by  numerous  Engravings.  Muslin 
gilt.     75  cents. 

This  selection  is  entirely  free  from  all  objectionable  mat- 
ter ;  it  is  a  l)Ook  to  teach  imperishable  trutlis  in  a  most  de- 
lightful way. — Soutlurn  XHitJLStian  Advocate. 

The  Good  Genius  that  turned  all  to 
Gold; 

Or,  the  Queen  Bee  and  the  Magic  Dress.  A 
Christmas  Tale.  Engravings.  Fancy  Cov- 
ers, gilt.     37i  cents. 

A  pleasant  little  fairy  tale,  full  of  pretty  allegories, ezem- 
lifying  the  uses  and  iinpurtancs  of  industry. — AiUu. 


Harper's  Illuminated  Bible, 

Superbly  embellished  with  1600  Illustrations, 
exquisitely  engraved  by  Adams  after  Designs 
by  Chapman,  with  Frontispieces,  Presenta- 
tion Plate,  Family  Record,  Title-pages,  &c. 
Superbly  Bound  in  Morocco,  super  extra  gilt. 
822  50.  • 
A  more  fitting  gift  from  parent  to  child — a  more  approprf- 

ate  souvenir  from  frieDd  to  friend— can  not  be  imagined.-^ 

Columbian. 

Pictorial  History  of  England. 

Down  to  the  Reign  of  George  III.  Profusely  Il- 
lustrated with  many  Hundred  Engravings.  4 
vols..  Muslin.  $14  00.  Three  Volumes  are 
now  ready. 

A  work  altogether  unapproached  as  apopalar  history  of 
Great  Britain. — Albion. 

One  of  the  most  entertaining  works  in  the  lanffuage. 
There  is  no  single  work  on  English  history  mort  valuiblc 
It  is  impossible  that  a  man  should  be  familinrwith  this  Pii 
torial  History  alone,  without  attaining  some  degree  of  it 
finement.  Of  course,  we  give  this  work  our  cordial  rccwM 
mendation  ;  it  is  a  far  more  valuable  work  than  Alison 
History,  and  should  meet  with  a  larger  sale. — N.  Y.  Acwi 

Harper's  Illustrated  Shakespeare. 

With  Notes  by  Hon.  G.  C.  Verplanck.  Su 
perbly  Embellished  by  over  1400  exquisit 
Engravings,  after  Designs  by  Meadows,  Wiei 
and  other  eminent  Artists.  3  vols.,  Morocc' 
gilt,  $25  00;  Muslin,  Sl8  00. 
It  will  unquestionably  be  placed  at  the  head  of  all  th, 

editions  of  Shakespeare  ever  published. — Standard. 

miller's  Boy's  Own  Book  of  the 
Seasons. 

Comprising  the  Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  an 
Winter  Books.     Descriptive  of  the  Sonsoi: 
Scenery,  Rural  Life,  and  Country  Amuse 
ments.    Embellished  by  numerous  exquisite 
Engravings.    4  vols..  Muslin  extra  gilt,  50] 
cents  each;  Paper,  37i  cents  each. 

Really  charming  books.  .  The  author  is  the  most  success 
ful  in  describing  rural  scenery  among  the  writers  of  the 
day.  His  scenes  have  all  the  freshness  and  beauty  which 
characterize  the  sketches  of  Miss  Mitford  and  Washington 
Irving.  The  engravings  are  all  exquisite,  and  those  printed 
in  colors  surpass  every  thing  hilhertoattemjited  in  that  liiM. 
— Professor  Frost. 

Robinson  Crusoe,  Illustrated 

With  50  Engravings  by  Adams.  Muslin  ^ilt 
87^  cents. 

This  is  a  beautiful  and  complete  edition  of  one  of  the  nnt 
versa!  favorites  in  English  literature  ;  a  book  that  may  be 
many  times  re-perused  without  disrehsh. 

Evenings  at  Hornet 

Or,  the  Juvenile  Budget  Opened.  With  En 
gravings  by  Adams.     Muslin  gilt.     75  r 

One  of  the  best  books  for  young  people  that  has 
peared  in  the  world.— ifi'.tJ  Edgeworth. 

The  Life  of  Christ,  Illustrated 

By  numerous  Engravings  on  Wood  by  Adams. 
Muslin  gilt.     75  cents. 

This  elegant  little  volume  jiresents,  not  Only  the  .Scri|>- 
ture  narrative  of  ihr  Uftftif  the  Savior,  bm»l»o  u  comptely 
harmony  of  the  Gosjiela. 


A  new  Pictorial  and  Descriptive  Catalogue  of  valuable  Standard  Works  in  the  several  branob«58 
of  Literature  has  just  been  issued,  and  may  be  obtained  on  application  to 

Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  Publishers,  New  York. 


Nj 


>-.  ..* 


